Give
by planet p
Summary: AU; Set mid-Season 5 / *Spoilers* - The Observers take a different tack. Windmark/Etta, Ella/September, Kitty/Canon Observer Character / Very much M rated!
1. Chapter 1

_You've gotta give something for love_

– from "Heal", performed by Loreen and featuring Blanks

1.

Euphoria was not a loyalist nor was she a member of the resistance. She was merely a human being, a "Native"; a mother, a sister, and a daughter. Her mother and sister had died some years ago, and Euphoria didn't think of them often. Instead, she concentrated her efforts on bringing up her daughter, Terra Ling, as best she could.

All of her clothes were several years old though still neat and functional; they were of good quality and she anticipated they would last many more years still. Terra Ling, however, often liked to dream of having fashionable or pretty clothes. She was thirteen and had been born into this world but the young were resourceful when it came to these things. She'd seen some ladies about town wearing long, cozy looking coats and had decided she would very much like one of her own. Her birthday was fast approaching and Euphoria had been steadily saving up. She estimated that she would be able to make her daughter very happy come her special day; she would be able to get the coat.

Euphoria worked as a cleaner, doing different jobs as they were arranged for her. Today, she was cleaning in a very nice apartment complex. Very nice. A little sterile for her tastes, sparse, but that just made it easier to manage. The less clutter, the better; the less personality you gave, so much the better. If you were too loud, so to speak, you were classed as dangerous, a potential liability. She had taught Terra Ling this long ago; when she bought it for her, her daughter would not be wearing her bright, flamboyant coat outside of their residence. It was not worth the risk. Terra Ling knew the rules, had been brought up living and breathing these very same rules, but Euphoria knew she would have to remind her once again, as painful as the idea was to her. In her mind, she was still deciding on exactly the right words to soften the blow.

The work was not particularly difficult, but it was hard. Hard on the body and because she was so tired out from working for many long hours, Euphoria did not have a lot of energy for helpful, healthy activity, and even less time to spend with her daughter, in between working, keeping the residence in order, and keeping them fed. She had long since resigned herself to the idea of pain, constant pain, and a bone-weary insomnia that viciously plagued her waking hours. In a way, it was a blessing that she had no time to think of such things as entertainment or socialization, a real "life". The frustration no longer ate at her consciously. She often thought of herself as a robot in a human's skin. A robot didn't make trouble; a robot didn't get the people around them killed by willfulness or sheer stupidity. A robot did as you did and survive, didn't draw undue attention. She was that robot. A good robot.

She didn't cause trouble.

When the world had first changed, she had been afraid to tell people her name, afraid that they might make something of it, of the meaning, and had often thought of changing it, or of merely dropping half of it so she would simply be known as Ria. A much more uninteresting, meaningless, unthreatening name. But she had kept her name, had named her little baby Terra Ling to honor the planet they called home, the planet that abided them despite it all, the continual horror, the all-pervasive terror. And her own name, though she made nothing of it, was her silent rebellion, her silent offering to the Earth of old which had held so many mysteries and wonders, that had been so able to inspire such hope and brightness to the lives of those who lived here, for the concept of life itself.

Euphoria was, to her, the opposite of pain. Whenever she had occasion to utter her name, she was reminding herself that she was so much more than her current painful existence. She was capable of love, of helping another when they were in need. She was still human enough for that, though her liberties were thin, weak. She would not turn away, had not in the past. She still brought the homeless clean water and mended their clothes for them, when she could, and she was respected for it, not merely seen as an object to use and abuse, but more than that, she was able to respect herself by helping others.

Terra Ling would sometimes accompany her, but she always stressed in her daughter the need to keep what was yours to yourself; your motivations, your feelings, what got you down and what picked you up. That was yours, and you only shared such things with those you held the closest, closest to your heart and soul, a notion the Observer-kind seemed not to share, not to have acquired over time through osmosis from regular contact and interaction with the Natives. The loyalist had lost their faith, their own integral understanding of the silent, unspoken workings of the universe that allowed them to enjoy life, and many more had given it up willingly, but the most troubling of all for Euphoria was the thought that the Observers had never had such a faith to begin with. Their experience of meaning was vastly different to that of the Natives and it was that sentiment that was now spreading through the Native kind as the "right" way.

No, Euphoria was determined that Terra Ling would never have to live like that. That though she would be required to tightly guard her true nature her whole life, she would not have to sacrifice it.

She left work on time, tired but careful to move as she always did, the same way she moved when she came into work. She did not hurry to work, eager for the job to be done, eager to do a "good" job. She didn't deign to show that much for prying eyes to use against her. She did her job and she did it to the best of her ability but there was no outward pride, no smiles at the satisfaction of a job well done. She used the elevator as she always did, would take the train home as she always did and walk the rest of the way. She did not stop along the way to rest, she would not give even that much.

As she rode the elevator down to ground floor, where she would get off, she thought of nothing but that which she was experiencing now. She did not imagine tomorrow, or even later tonight. She was in the elevator, the elevator was descending as it did, as it should, she was standing in the elevator as it was going down. That was her routine, and she didn't deviate. To deviate would be to destabilize, and even a falsified imaginary life would betray her and those she loved, would ring untrue to those used to navigating the thoughts and feelings of others with practiced ease and an acceptable hint of entitlement.

Save for one other person, a man – an Observer, really – she was alone in the elevator. She did not consider the Observers as different to anyone else, had thought about it in the past, but had decided that she would merely see them as another living being. They could not – had not yet – objected to her categorization of them, when they had occasion to pry; she took this as, not quite encouragement, but acceptance. They could tolerate that she thought of them as living beings, yes.

The elevator stopped a couple more times on its steady descent, once so that someone could get on and once so they could get off again. Euphoria did not glance at the someone who had joined them for a short while, either when they got in or when they left again. She was aware of them and that was enough; she was at one with the elevator, merely an extension of the downward movement of the machine until she had occasion to move once more, to step out and walk away.

She did not notice the man who just then turned a glance in her direction, perhaps having read her.

The elevator reached ground floor and the doors parted. Euphoria did not require to take stock of her limbs, she strode from the elevator a fully put-together, fully-functioning being.

Once again, she failed to notice the man's interest in her for he was watching her leave, possessed of an air that could only be noted as a close cousin to interest.

.

On her way home, she stopped by the shop where she would purchase Terra Ling's red coat. She had not arranged a system of down payments for the items, had not wanted the scrutiny for it, and was now carefully heading through the store, taking no particular interest in any item or other. First, she had a look at the sale items, then she walked away to look at some other things. When she came to the coat, she spent some time looking at it, but no more time that she had any other item she had looked at, and then she moved on. Only when she had looked at several dozen items did she stop, walk to the service counter, and enquire about the coat, presenting her currency right off so it would be known that she had the funds to cover her purchase.

It was a good, solid piece of clothing, and well enough functional. She did not allow herself to touch the material any longer than was needed, did not think of her daughter as she did so. The coat was for her; Terra Ling would grow into it, and they were not that different in size anyhow. It was a good thing; helpful if onlookers should be present.

She stepped out onto the street and continued on, stopping in at another store to purchase the same can of soup she always did on this day of the week. Terra Ling's favorite, in reality.

Others had told her that she was too paranoid. Quietly, she knew they had been thinking her "crazy" paranoid, but she wasn't affected by their negative assessment of her, did not think of it negatively, merely as another thought and one of many, many more. She did not have to presume to know their mind to know this was their assessment of her; a couple had quietly explained this to her, out of concern, she supposed, and she had merely taken their words and let them go again. Her mother and sister would not agree, would say that some forms of paranoia were healthy living in such as climate as that which she had to raise her daughter and somehow manage for the two of them to survive physically and mentally.

Later that night, after serving up the soup and settling down to eat dinner and then, afterward, cleaning the dishes and putting them away, Euphoria left to fetch the bag which contained Terra Ling's new coat, and returned to present it to her softly smiling daughter. She knew that a present was coming, she didn't know what, but that didn't matter.

When the coat was revealed, Terra Ling broke into a wide, bright smile. She had to contain herself to rise slowly from her seat and gently touch the material, finally taking the coat into her arms for herself. Euphoria noted her daughter's struggle with her emotions and hurt for her, for the restrain she was forced to impose upon her own happiness. She never wanted her daughter to be forced to walk the same path in life as that which she was walking, to be forced to hide so much of herself that it ceased to exist even for her.

Watching her daughter stroke the material and then try on her new coat, she kept her tears at bay. Only later did she allow the tears to drip from her face, when Terra Ling had taken off her coat and hung it up somewhere safe, after they had completed Terra Ling's set reading together and Terra Ling was sleeping in bed and she, herself, was sweeping the floor. She watched her tears fall and contained the urge to allow hysteria into her heart and soul.

One day, Terra Ling would fly free, would walk in the between the dark and light and find joy in some of her experience, unfettered by the whims of any other, by the vicious, unthinking attempts to control, to force conformity and docile action.

Terra Ling was not a robot, and never would be.

Sensing something wasn't quite as it should be when he returned to his apartment that evening, Windmark walked around his apartment until he found the cause of the problem. Much to his confusion, he noted a woman sleeping in his bed. Drawing closer confirmed that she was definitely sleeping. She was holding something close to her, a stuffed creature of some form, a child's toy, he thought, not the actual creature. He stood watching her a moment before he decided it was what the Natives called a cow. A toy cow. Which didn't explain why the woman was sleeping in his bed, much less why she was in his apartment in the first place.

He reached over to shake her awake, not quite sure if he should do so himself or if he should call someone else to do so, a Native law enforcement officer. Finally, he decided that he would do so himself; he didn't like to feel helpless or stupid. He grabbed the woman's shoulder, noting and carefully filing away a record of her features in case he should have reason to pick her out of the crowd in future. By her facial features he could tell she was clearly of a particular heritage, in this case, Asian. She had fine black hair that would, were she standing, fall to her waist, and was braided neatly. Her eyes, he thought, were likely of a similar darkness, and her frame was diminutive. She appeared to be dressed in some type of uniform and he realized then that they had met before, before he noted that she had removed her shoes and left them at the side of the bed. He hadn't even noticed them before, despite the sparseness of the room. He had seen her before in the elevator. She looked different in sleep; he almost hadn't recognized her. He still didn't know why she was here; for her own particular reasons or perhaps for reasons that also involved him.

He stared at her for a long moment, his hand gripping her shoulder with no certain purpose. She was unhappy, he thought. He sensed that about her, the unhappiness that might, actually, have been some form of anguish. She was sleeping deeply and it had been some time since she had slept like she was sleeping now, her small feet with their unpainted nails bare, showing a sizable scar on the bottom of her right foot.

He gave her a rough shake, sensing the warmth of his grip on her shoulder, the slight pain of its insistence.

The woman didn't scream. She merely opened eyes as dark as coffee and sat up, clutching the toy to her protectively. He wasn't sure if she was protecting herself or the toy.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, to the mattress. She was no longer looking at him.

He wasn't interested in her apology. "Tell me why you are here," he replied, wondering most of all why she was sad as he hadn't been able to pinpoint the reason earlier.

"I was tired. I lay down. I didn't mean to fall asleep. I'm sorry for that." She moved to the edge of the bed, leaning down to take hold of her shoes but she didn't return them to her feet. For a long moment, she didn't move at all. And then she slipped off the bed, straightening to her full, unimpressive height. "I'll comply with anything that you wish of me."

"Tell me why you are here," he repeated, unaffected by her earlier words. She hadn't answered his question, no matter what she believed.

"I was cleaning. I'm a cleaner."

"You were cleaning. You were tired. You lay down." He scowled, his displeasure purposefully visible. She needed to know how  
not okay her actions were and had been. "Do you understand the notion of respect, cleaner?"

"I understand that I was disrespectful. If you believe I should be punished for it, I will not protest." She was still holding that toy to her chest, one arm cradling it against her and the other hand down by her side, holding her shoes.

He touched her wrist, slipped his fingers around the slimness of it and squeezed. The woman winced but made no sound. "Put the shoes down."

She dropped her shoes, never once taking her gaze from his. Her impulsiveness surprised him. Based on earlier indications, the insolence of this action was not expected, and struck him as a very short distance from delinquency. She was mocking him, probably, meant to mock him; mock his authority and, by extension, his superiority over her and her kind.

Put that way, he saw no reason not proceed with a suitable punishment. He was superior to her, whether by design, by biology or merely by standing, the fact remained. She was less than him in every single way. He hit her across the face.

She didn't cry. The toy slipped out of her grasp and landed on the floor at her feet. Her dark gaze didn't so much mock him as it remained defiantly fixed on his own.

"Pick up the shoes. You will go."

She bent down, reaching first for the toy, but he quickly snatched up her hand, gripping it tightly so that it was painful.

"The shoes. The toy remains here."

He let go of her wrist, allowed her to grab her shoes.

"You will leave now. You will inform your superior that you wish to be reassigned to another work detail. You will never return here." He watched her as she watched him, her dark eyes eerily intent, and it displeased him that she wasn't more upset, wasn't even tearful and frightened. Most other would be. It made him wonder all the more what had hurt her earlier.

"As you wish, sir."

It was only upon hearing her voice again that it occurred to him to read her. She was still watching him, hadn't taken her eyes off him, and when he set his mind to the subject of her thoughts and feelings, her eyes remained in place, locked with his.

Involuntarily, he recalled the moment that he read Henrietta Bishop for the last time. His concern was not the memory she had been recalling or even the feelings it had brought about in her; it was not even particularly relevant to Etta herself. It was just that he had been touching her and she was, like this woman, quite small, fragile in his hands.

The urge to touch this woman strengthened in him and he gave up trying to fight and took hold of her face, glaring down at her with as much disgust as he could muster. He did find the Natives disgusting, truthfully, though to touch them didn't harm him in the least. In fact, he rather enjoyed the experience, knowing that they rarely fought back, that though they might have, had they known the depth of hatred he felt for them and their entire kind, their disgusting ways, they still did not fight. He could end their insignificant lives and they would not fight back to stop him. They simply knew that he was superior, and better in every single way. There was no chance for them, none at all. That, when they did not fight, was most disgusting and also somewhat thrilling, affirming for him his own superiority to them. He, however, preferred when they fought. He was better than them, but he didn't dislike the chance to prove exactly why. He had been pleasantly pleased when Henrietta Bishop had chosen to fight, when she had challenged him, had insinuated that he was not better but merely equal.

A tear slipped from the woman's face and tracked the curve of her cheek but still she did not fight, and then, for reasons unknown to him, she said, "My only child died yesterday. She had never hurt anyone in her life. I want… I want to ask you a favor I won't be able to return."

Glaring down at her pathetic form, he asked, "What would you ask of me?" He was not upset to hear of the death of her only child, considered that it was "good"; another of her pathetic kind no longer existed and that was good.

"End my life," she said, gazing deeply into his eyes, her voice steady, unshaking.

Surprisingly, he didn't give it a moment's thought. He snapped her neck easily and watched her drop to the floor with a heavy thud. The thud was always heavier than he anticipated, and somehow more satisfying.

He could easily say that she had tried to attack him, to harm him, if anyone asked.

He picked up the toy she had been holding a while ago and sat down on the bed, gazing at the woman's small, totally unmoving form. She wasn't breathing anymore. She would never breathe again. She was dead.

He wasn't bothered. Another one of them was dead, that was good.

2.

The little girl was curled up in a big, old armchair that itself was facing a fireplace in which the fire had died down a short while ago, the embers still glowing softly. She was asleep, hugging her favorite toy, a well worn penguin. She was three years old, her medium-length fair hair slightly ruffled from a day's worth of living. Another little girl, probably six years old, with similar features and hair, sat in a nearby chair watching her little sister sleeping. The older girl's name was Unn and the very youngest was Tokey.

Unn glanced away from her sibling at the sound of someone entering the room and uncurled herself from the chair, touching her toes to the floor and finally standing. Her father touched her shoulder, watching the glowing embers for a moment, then he turned and extracted the sleeping little girl from out of the armchair, scooping her into his arms and holding her close.

She didn't stir and he reached for her toy. The children had been waiting for their mother to return home but she would not be coming home tonight, or even the next night. He took the kids to their room, tucked them both in so they wouldn't be cold, brushed the hair from Unn's face. "Sleep well, child."

She smiled faintly, sleep close. "Goodnight, Daddy."

In the living room, he took a seat in the armchair Unn had earlier been seated in, awaiting her mother's return. His thoughts strayed from the children and the softly glowing embers emitting warmth still to the children's mother, eyes like the sky above, clear and blue, and fair hair like strands of sunlight, sometimes serious but always warm. He thought that he, like the children, was waiting for her to come home.

His communicator signaled an incoming communiqué and he took it out of his pocket to answer it, quietly pleased for the distraction. He was yet to explain to the children the reason for their mother's absence; he was building up to it, but every time he thought he was ready, one of the children would favor him with a warm smile and he would grow afraid. He had always believed himself strong enough to handle anything this world may dish out, but in those days he didn't even know what he didn't know.

"Hello," he said, to the communicator.

"Hey."

His heart filled with joy at the sound of her voice, tired but so very happy and very much awake.

That was when Windmark woke, his heart beating uncharacteristically hard in his chest. The dream slowly faded from his conscious mind as wakefulness solidified inside him, but not before realization dawned on him as to who the woman in his dreams must be. He had never heard her voice sound that way before, and never would. She was dead, he had ended her life himself.

.

On his way into work, he happened to glance across the street and caught sight of a poster that was the handiwork of the resistance. He looked away quickly. A little too quickly for one who was trying to convince himself he wasn't bothered in the slightest. It was just a dream, had just been a dream. Though he had not had many dreams before, he understood what they were, and that they could come in many shapes and forms. He was only slightly upset with himself. Not all dreams were pleasing, and not all very particularly realistic, either. This was merely an instance of such a dream. He refused to think of it as a nightmare. The girl did not get to have that kind of effect on him, that kind of power over him. He was superior to her in every single way, and now she was dead. He had ended her.

Unruffled, he went on his way.

.

He sat in his office, not at all pleased. He had just been back "home", had received orders from his superior. They were beginning a new program named Keystone. The Natives were important for the continued existence of their kind, the superior had told him. He had not asked why. His superior had explained that progress for progress's sake when it forsook other more basic instincts was not favorable, and that their own kind would do well to incorporate this into their own set of protocols. He rather thought his superior suffering some form of illness, as the Natives would say. But no, his superior explained, the Earth was important, their "home". They might live elsewhere, of course, were they to develop suitable technology, but the Earth would always be their "first" home and most suitable for them because this was where their evolution had begun. A "romantic" notion, if Windmark had ever heard one, and a decidedly ill one, but he said nothing. Perhaps their was some actually scientific basis to this idea that he was yet to hear of, that was the way of things amongst their kind. You knew when you knew and not before.

To better direct their efforts, his superior said, there needed to be, was required, a set of protocols. Protocols such as they had not known before, protocols for stricter control, or, as he thought of it, structured evolution. They would begin Keystone soon, and he would lead by example. He no more understood the meaning of any of what his superior was saying as he did the line about "strength through connection" and the idea of a "good and wholesome" degree of mystery that gently asserted curiosity as well as courage, the courage to explore, to wonder, to imagine themselves as greater with time.

The basis of Keystone was meaning. What they needed as a people was meaning. Meaning would save them, would allow them to do more than simply conquer and control, would allow them to continue to observe and experience. Right now, the scope of their acceptable experiences was severely limited, and as such their progress was stilted in a way they found very hard to see, much less accept, but it was stilted nonetheless, their very evolution stilted.

To kick off the program, he was tasked with "meaningfully associating" with one of the "acceptable" Natives, seeing as they had no females of their own kind. Though he would not understand the importance of this task, the first fruits of their labor would become apparent with the birth of their children. In interbreeding with the Natives, they would eventually "wipe out" the Natives in their own way; the Natives would have no way to fight, if they even realized what was happening. They would not be poisoning their gene pool but strengthening it, as they were in dire need of variety. The favorable elements would be retained whilst the unfavorable would be "marked" as such and given, albeit covertly, lower priority. The Natives would remain ignorant of this new system of priority, but those of their own kind in power would be well aware, beginning with him.

A decidedly ill feeling washing through him, Windmark did not offer any disagreement for this new program. What could he say, really? It was not in their protocols to disagree with superiors, and this all consuming feeling of disgust and anger was not to be utilized today, nor directed at a superior. It would merely cease to exist, and if he should inadvertently transfer his frustration onto another, a Native, perhaps, then that was an acceptable outlet. Natives were of little priority to the Observer objective. At least, they had been before today, before this new program.

"An adjustment must be made to the timeline," his superior was saying now. A moment later, an image appeared before him. The woman was not smiling. The anger welling inside Windmark was no less for the fact.

"You are to be associated with this woman," his superior said.

He had never felt physically ill before. He supposed there was a first for everything, as the Natives often said. At that moment, staring at the image of Henrietta Bishop, he felt very ill. At that moment, the world felt very, very wrong. Alien, even.

There was to be no fight between them. Henrietta Bishop was once more at work, typing up a report of another Native-on-Native crime on her computer. Phillip Broyles stopped by her desk and asked that she join him in his office, where Captain Windmark was waiting, though he did not inform her of this last part because when she saw him her expression changed entirely.

When she arrived, Phillip was asked to leave. He didn't seem happy about it. He obeyed nonetheless. Henrietta was even less happy. Her carefully schooled control had not yet slipped, but Windmark sensed it wasn't far off doing so, or perhaps the feelings he was sensing were entirely his own. Abruptly, the disorienting feelings of nausea returned. He did not believe in this new program, nor did he "understand", but he had his orders.

Henrietta did not take a seat so they both remained standing, both pretending as though everything was fine, they did not want to end each other. Then he gave Henrietta her new "supplementary" orders.

She laughed, not an amused laugh but a sarcastic laugh. He did not so much as blink; he was not making a joke. When she finally clued onto this, she stopped laughing, uttering just one word. "No."

"You have been given your orders," he told her. "Those refusing their orders will be dealt with accordingly, to the fullest extent of the law."

She scowled and the hatred in her eyes was impressive; breathtaking, even. He felt as if he had been knocked back a few steps. He had never seen that look on her face before and it gave him some pleasure to do so, to know he had been the one to put it on her face, to shake her up that much. It was a good look on her, he decided. Perhaps, to her kind, it signified her weakness, but in his mind, it signified her strength. She dared to show her defiance plainly and it was exhilarating.

She did not, of course, know anything of the outcome of their fight, the one in which she had failed, had lost her life at his hands. She would not understand why he was feeling the way he was, even if he was to tell her. She would merely think him "sick" of mind and intention.

"Are you suggesting that it is your intention to challenge the law, Henrietta Bishop?" he asked, his tone strictly professional despite the manic glee he felt inside, replacing, almost completely, the nausea. He shouldn't have been feeling either, strictly speaking, but he didn't see it as a problem. What his kind didn't know wouldn't harm them, as the Native saying went.

She looked away, her blue eyes swimming with tears she would allow to fall. When she spoke, her voice came out forced, stiff. "No." She turned back to meet his utterly unaffected gaze. "I will comply."

Nausea returned to him, thick and fast, and he placed a hand on her shoulder mechanically. "In that case, you will follow me. There are agreements to be verified."

She shrugged his hand from her shoulder and slipped past him. For some reason, he felt deflated. He remembered the last time they'd been so close, the last time he'd been touching her, before she had died.

If only Keystone had never come into being, she would still be dead. His victory would not have vanished before his eyes, leaving him uncharacteristically bereft.

Inwardly, he knew she would never give up on ending his kind. Never. She might play the game, but it was just that for her, a game, as it would be for him, also. In reality, they had more in common than she would ever know. The thought was not "cute" or pleasurable.

.

Etta was crying when Olivia found her. It was difficult for her to make her words come out properly, to explain just what had happened as Olivia respectfully refrained from comforting her. She had held out a hand to keep her mother from drawing her close into her arms. She couldn't think about anyone holding her right now, not after what she had just learned today. It would only make it worse. She needed time, time to process this new development.

When she finally got it all out, Olivia was wearing a blank expression. Obviously, she was hiding her murderous eyes. Etta could feel her mother's white hot rage, even if Olivia didn't realize it. She allowed it to reach out to her and wrap her in its overly cloying warmth, to comfort her in the confusion and pain it bought, and felt proud. Proud of her mother, proud of the fact that she hadn't broken down in front of that maniac, Windmark.

Only fully functioning Natives were considered subjects as opposed to objects, or "assets". Rachel and Ella, both suffering medical "conditions", were considered assets, assets which Etta had taken into her possession when Rachel's husband had died. Eddie was a doctor and as such had been required to give an offering, a show of good faith to his cause. He had done so by denouncing Rachel and Ella as his assets. As unclaimed assets they would have been virtually helpless; assets were not entitled to own other assets, were only given "rights" via their service to their possessors and a legally binding agreement. The consequences of Etta's refusal of Windmark's agreement would have meant the end for Rachel and Ella, and certain death. What could she do?

Olivia had no answer for that, only more anger which she once more chose to hide.

.

Several weeks later, following many stressful meetings and tests – Etta, as the Native, was required to be in her best health; there was nothing about her health and physical state she was to hide from her "associate" – the day came for them to spend time in each other's presence, outside of work.

Windmark chose that time to be spent at his residence. He could have chosen Henrietta's place for their first "agreed interaction", but he did not wish to. He much preferred his own residence and was partial to the notion that Henrietta would be inherently on edge in an unfamiliar place. The way he felt about this whole arrangement himself, he needed the comfort it would bring knowing Henrietta was feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

He knew what was required of him (as per their legally binding agreement) and he didn't believe he was quite ready. It was a feeling he was most unaccustomed to.

Ill at ease, he met Henrietta in the lobby and they caught the elevator together. He recalled the last incidence of a woman being in his apartment and felt sorely that things would not be going down the same road this time. This was one Native he was not allowed to kill, under any circumstance.

He wondered if her parents knew, if she had told them yet, if they wished all the more to end him. He deduced that they would not be happy if they knew. It pleased him to think this and even more so given the high probability that he was right.

A quick glance in Henrietta's direction told him she was wearing her necklace. It irritated him. He wanted to rip it from her neck and toss it somewhere. It was unnatural, contaminated by her Native ways, her damned "emotions". She was playing with it now, probably thinking about her parents who "loved" her, or those who she loved and was doing this to keep safe, her mother's sister, Rachel, and Rachel's daughter, Ella.

He very much imagined she thought herself "brave", though he merely saw her as weak. Willfully weak, yes, but weak all the same. She was voluntarily bringing this anguish upon herself, she was clearly weak, or sick, or both. He was disgusted just thinking about it. He really didn't want to have to touch her, much less share the same space as her, but it was required and he, like her, understood that he was not all powerful. Even he had superiors, even he had his orders.

When the elevator came to his floor and the doors opened, Henrietta dropped her hand from her necklace and followed after him mutely. He didn't like that he couldn't see her but he would be no less pleased had she been waiting for him outside his door. His apartment was, by definition, "his", and it was his privilege that he know where it was and she did not. She would know from now on but even so, the last few moments of her not knowing were "his", also. He was not going to give them up for anything. He supposed the Natives might attribute some other significance to the ritual of "inviting someone over", but he was not like them and did not wish to be.

He opened the door of his apartment and stepped inside. He didn't linger at the door, or waste time making some ceremony out of inviting Henrietta inside and showing her around. They walked to the living area and she took a seat on the nearest object soft enough, a single white "couch" that featured neither arms nor back.

She was visibly morose.

He took a seat beside her and consulted his tablet device. Finding the section of their agreement he was looking for, he handed the tablet to her. She took it silently and her moroseness grew. She didn't correct it, or even strive to do so.

A sharp glance wiped the most of that miserable look from her face. It didn't, however, leave her eyes. Though objectionable, he didn't object. It would have been disconcerting had she successfully chosen to feign willing co-operation given her ability to fool a read. He did not think he would have liked that.

He took the tablet back and stood, setting it aside. He understood his requirements but he couldn't quite make sense of how he should make it all happen. His kind was not like Natives; they were not actively encouraged to explore such things as sexuality or romantic notions. As a degree of sexuality was thought to be only natural, he supposed it was possible, at least theoretically, but he didn't like the idea of what he would have to allow himself to feel physically in order to fulfill his requirements. As the Natives would say, he just wasn't like that. The trouble was, he wasn't given a choice.

Just like Henrietta.

He could have rebelled, but to do so would not be in his best interests. He was career minded; he would go through a lot before he sacrificed that. Even this.

Though it was not in his nature, he couldn't help wondering which of them would crack first: Henrietta or he himself?

.

It was a slow, painful process for him to watch Henrietta getting her courage up to do what needed to be done. Many times, he merely wanted to leave, or have her leave. Her weakness was disgusting. It wasn't that she was deliberately slow, but, by nature, he did not hurry or drag things out and the added interaction with her actions only hinted at the great difference between them, at her weakness and his strength. This woman was not well matched to him yet his superior had chosen her. Why?

She shed her garments with slow, unskilled hands, as if she had forgotten quite how to undress herself, though she can't logically have forgotten, she was merely possessed of a lack of will for such as task. She lay back on the mattress with a distance in her eyes that was disheartening. He was sure she was trying to mess this up for them both and strongly wished to explain to her how if this did not work they would only be required to try again but he was strong, too strong to admit to her that he might not be able to go through this a second, or third time. It would not look good on his record, he thought.

Without her clothes and in the absence of her steely, confident exterior, Henrietta appeared flimsy. Everything about her, her smallness, her watery blue eyes, it was all flimsy. Any healthy color had left her face completely and she appeared unnaturally pigmented, as if on the verge of being physically ill. He did not like that idea. He thought of going easy on her to minimize the possibility that she might be ill in case any of it found its way onto his person, but that would be weak and he despised weakness. He would not encourage it in his associate.

As she lay on the bed, he kept his eyes firmly on her face, intrigued to see if she would actually cry. He had been watching all the while she removed her clothes and she had not cried then. He was optimistic that she would do the right thing and hold herself together.

He undressed more swiftly than she had, his actions precisely economical and efficient the way hers had not been, and joined her on the bed, settling himself atop her small, soft frame and arranging her legs so that he would have the access he required. In contrast to everything he had read, she was uncharacteristically cold to the touch. If he hadn't read her health assessment himself, he might have believed her unwell.

As she had been waiting on the bed, she had laid her hands neatly beside her on the mattress, unfurled and seemingly calm. Now, they were shaking and blotchy. He could tell she didn't know where to put them, where she would be able to _stand_ putting them, and thought of commanding that she touch him, just to press her buttons a little, but he didn't want to go too far and have his "attitude" backfire on him when she retaliated or got sick.

Skimming a hand across her belly on the way to grasping her hip, he felt a violent shudder rip through her body, making her fingers curl around the sheet covering the mattress. Her eyes strayed from his as she tried to stay strong and he couldn't do anything about the answering burst of pleasure that washed over him. It was enough for him to set aside his own disgust for a moment and when he lowered his gaze he saw that it had helped quite a bit, actually. Unbeknownst to him, he had achieved an erection. Without a moment's hesitation, he found the right position and thrust.

Henrietta's face contorted with the massive effort of staying silent and controlling her urge to fight, to flee. The sight of it was actually quite disgusting; she wasn't pretty any more, in any small way. Just small, weak and ugly.

He knew she wouldn't fight him, no matter how much she wanted to, and the knowledge gave him encouragement, gave him the power to submit himself to this disgusting, defacing act. He continued a rhythmic thrusting action, much more aware than he might otherwise have been of the helpless twisting of her hands in the sheet and the way the momentum flowed between them seemingly seamlessly, from his body to hers, to the way he was able to jolt her from any small measure of tentative control she might have grasped hold of with just one insignificant action.

Soon enough, her fragile state had descended into hysteria as silent tears poured from her eyes without end and she began to choke on her own breath, gasping for air when she did and submitting to the painful humiliation that followed with equal helplessness. If he imagined, in any strange way, that she was enjoying herself, she couldn't even care. She was trying too hard to remain whole and a singular being, to remain Henrietta as opposed to a broken, blubbering mess on the bed.

The horror she was enduring comforted him endlessly, and he actually found himself growing bolder for it, really coming into the nature of his desire. It was actually liberating and he allowed all of his anger and disgust to flow out of him into her through their strange, disgusting connection. The power he had over her now was breathtaking, simply staggering; easily addicting.

Naturally wary of excess of any kind, he countered his high with a personal challenge of his own. The Natives seemed to enjoy such activities, both the males and the females, and he put it to himself to figure this out. With all the power he now held, was it enough to turn the tables and manipulate the woman beneath him to make an about turn away from pain and into pleasure.

The more he thought about it, the more intriguing the idea seemed to him. If a lowly creature like a Native could do it, he was sure he could manage it with consummate finesse.

Chancing a glance into her face, discolored by distress, her eyes veritable pools of misery, he decided that he would be pleased to accept his own challenge, to prove to himself that he was worthy of his high standing amongst his kind. He would not be defeated in anything. Just as he had won once before when he had taken Henrietta's life right out of her hands, he would give unto her something which he was certain now she would detest about as much as he detested her and her entire kind.

He begun by stroking her arm as he had seen countless times before. It was, he knew, very comforting to her kind. She didn't push his hand away but it didn't make a jot of difference. Annoyed, he picked up her hand, after a little struggle removing her hand from the sheet, and placed a kiss on the back of her pale, limp hand.

A shudder of revulsion traced the length of her body and he turned her hand over, kissing her palm. Displeasingly, it was sweaty; yucky, as her kind would say. Her kissed her wrist. It was softer than her palm and he had the entirely foreign urge to sink his teeth into her soft flesh. Somehow, he figured that would not further his cause, and refrained, kissing along the underside of her arm until he reached the crook where her forearm met her upper arm, the opposite side to her elbow.

She abruptly pulled her arm away, hiccupping as she whispered, "What are you doing?"

"What are you doing?" he returned. "I don't see you making any effort and I believe an undertaking of this nature must be, in actuality, a joint venture. Both parties are required to contribute for the success of the operation."

She brushed the back of her hand across her face and sniffed, a small, jerky laugh escaping her throat and causing yet more tears to roll down her cheeks, some of them pooling about the curve of her mouth and some of them tracing over the edge of her chin or sliding across the skin of her neck.

"Operation?!" she croaked, redirecting his gaze to her face once more and away from her neck where he had been observing the course of a single of her tears.

Her tone implied something beyond the single word she had uttered, but he could not be sure what exactly. Instead of try to make sense of it, he said, "Do something."

That brought a glare to her eyes, the watery edge of them frighteningly sharp in spite of the liquid fluidity of them. If he stared into them for too long they actually became menacing.

Just as he thought that would be the full extent of her willful participation, she surprised him with a rough grasp and a short display of surprising strength which she utilized to reverse their positions, the necklace she hadn't been strong enough to remove with the rest of her clothing brushing against his skin along with her fine, blonde hair as she glared down at him with her blotchy skin he couldn't accurately take serious.

She was a very sorry sight, and slightly demented of bearing, if he was quietly truthful with himself, but she probably thought herself assertive, even threatening.

He touched her hair, momentarily distracted by the cheerfulness and brightness of it, so in contrast to the rest of her. He wasn't quite sure why he thought it was cheerful, or if that was just her own assessment of it, but such questions didn't seem important. It was soft, also, though rather annoying against his skin. It didn't belong with him; it was hers.

He brushed it away, shunning it, but it just came back. Straddling him as she was now, he decided that he had again misjudged Henrietta's capacity for exerting the full extent of her weight. She wasn't exactly heavy but he noticed her, more so when she rose just long enough to alleviate the pressure of at least part of her body against his and sunk down onto him, driving his length deep inside her. She didn't look at him as she resumed a shaky rhythm, impaling herself on him over and over. Out of the blue, he found his breath catching and breathing from then on became more of a task than an automatic action. An unexpected pressure began to build inside of him, insistent and somewhat pervasive, and then bordering on painful, the culmination of which was a deeply disquieting shudder that ripped through his body and sapped him of both energy and willingness, his thoughts becoming somewhat of a slushy haze.

He surmised that he had fulfilled his objective and allowed himself to check that off of his list; a job well done.

Henrietta flopped down on top of him, burying her face against his neck so that he could feel each time she breathed out and her warm breath brushed his skin. It didn't annoy him just yet, he was still coasting in some indefinable state of acceptance.

When she started to cry, the sobs wracking her whole body with violent glee, he let her. Her tears dropped onto his skin and he didn't push her away in disgust. His capacity for rational, calculated thought was slowly but surely returning and he had begun to ponder the outcome of his personal challenge. Disappointingly, he surmised that he had failed. Henrietta's tears were not happy tears; happy tears did not attack one's entire body with such accurate and inflicting menace.

Still, one out of two wasn't bad, and it wasn't a requirement that she enjoy their time together, just that she strive for assisting his enjoyment as opposed to it being one big painful process.

And that she not inflict her disagreement onto him thus by implying some wrongdoing on his part, some form of abuse directed at her.

He pushed her head away, irritated again, close to discomforting disgust. "Smile." When he looked, finding his strength and sitting up in bed, her expression was blissfully vague, her face wet with tears she had shed for reasons of her own he was no longer interested in knowing.

She had folded her arms over her chest in effort to cover her breasts and retain some of her dignity as she saw it, he supposed, and he found his gaze pondering the sight which lay beneath her arms. He had not paid much attention beforehand but he was paying attention now.

He took hold of her upper arms and pulled her closer roughly. He tasted the salt of her tears on the side of her neck, the slow build of a now identifiable excitement spurring him on as his hands sunk lower, skimming her soft, touchable curves and pulling her into his lap. He didn't see her wince, or jam her eyes closed, determined not to cry again. He lay her back on the bed and felt the roundness of her shoulders in his hands, sliding his hands lower to cup her breasts. One hand squeezed her breast while the other came to rest on her thigh, sliding up and down the smooth skin stretched over serious muscle.

He thought she must be a good runner and that incited him to thoughts of chasing her, of catching her and undressing her hastily. She might even object to his hands on her, removing her clothes, exposing her to the cool air; she might prefer to undress herself, as a fully grown woman in full possession of her wits, and that would only make it all the more imperative that he thwart her struggles, that he show her who was really superior.

He dropped his face and sunk his teeth into her breast, into her soft, squeezable flesh and felt the smoothness of her silky soft flesh tempered by the uncaring shudder that jolted through her at the pain. He held her tighter, the taste of blood bright in his mouth, and adjusted her in his lap, skin sliding over skin with slick, shivering heat. Then he thrust into her, over and over again; faster, harder, softer, slowly, any way that took his fancy or merely enticed his intellectual curiosity.

Her hands remained on him and did not stray to the sheets, tracing across muscle and bone and alternately pushing and pulling. Her breath came out panting and not as moans of pleasure, laboring harder at times, but she wasn't crying any longer. She had found her focus, her determination once more.

He didn't know if that was a good thing or an unfortunate thing, if he should be pleased or displeased. The lack of sobbing was pleasing enough that he decided to set aside their rivalry momentarily, in the pursuit of other experiences.

When he reached orgasm for the second time, she followed him, biting down on her fist in effort to contain her reaction.

They lay side by side on the bed for a while, during which he decided that they had more than fulfilled their agreement and took control of his limbs long enough to slip out of bed and retrieve his garments. Part of him wanted to stay and indulge itself once more and he could see how that would end. It would be very hard to retain some semblance of respectability and fortitude under such circumstances and so he would, as the many posters he had seen depicting Henrietta Bishop urged, resist.

A biological being he might have been, but he was possessed of an intellect also and that intellect was now urging him to back off. He did not want to accustom himself to such activities, and certainly not with this woman. He did not want her to think herself to have some power over him, that he was able to be manipulated by the right means.

He was messy and a little fatigued. He left to clean himself up and take a shower. Afterward, he walked back to the bedroom. Henrietta was once more dressed and was now attempting to put her shoes on, which she was having trouble with. Her hands, much like the rest of her, would not stop shaking.

He sat down on the floor with her and helped her pull her boots on and tie the laces. He wasn't sure why he would do such a thing, but now that the thing was done, he just wanted to be left alone, he just wanted her to be gone.

It was strange, then, when he closed the door after her that he found himself feeling empty.

3.

Upon returning home, Etta stripped off all her clothes and took a long, painful shower, scrubbing herself relentlessly until her skin burned. Standing in front of the mirror, she brushed her hair for the better part of forty minutes, her eyes fixed for some of that time on the necklace she still wore. She felt like cutting her hair off, like crying and curling into a ball on the bathroom floor, like maybe not breathing.

She slept on the couch that night, unable to face her own bed. It hurt her back and other parts of her body, too, but she still got up at the same time she always did and poured herself a glass of warm water, just for the comfort of it, of the warm liquid warming her entire body. She sat in the kitchen shivering, afraid to touch her favorite boots because _he_ had touched them, because she had done a stupid thing, she had allowed him to help her pull them on when she had been too weak.

She hadn't told her parents about this, not before and not yet. She didn't know how to. She couldn't stand the thought of their hurt, their pain, that she would be hurting them in a manner she would never be able to make up for and shouldn't actually have had to but wanted, more than anything, to soothe. She didn't want to tell them but knew she had to, that it was only right. If only… if only she could will herself to feel less like a party to it all. She didn't feel like a victim and she knew in reality that she wasn't. In any case, she wasn't a victim in the traditional sense. She didn't know what was going on with her, or inside her, only that it was bad. So bad.

She left for work, arrived at work, and wondered how it had all gone down. She was walking around as if on autopilot. She had no idea about anything. She was afraid of hurting someone for no reason whatsoever, or just because she was messed up.

Sitting at her desk, she stared at it as if expecting something more. If they had been normal people and they'd had a hot date, there would have been flowers. Maybe even chocolates. She found herself wishing for something, something more than nothing, something that would affirm for her that she wasn't a victim. Of course, it would make telling her parents about it harder, but it would honestly be easier on her. Much easier.

She wanted to cry again.

Phillip arrived with a hot drink and some idle chatter. She took the drink and resisted the urge to accidentally brush her hand against his. She didn't want to freak him out but she really wanted to touch someone. Someone who wouldn't try to hurt her. She really wished she could just leap to her feet and hug him like crazy. He would be warm and kind and safe, always safe. He would probably be massively freaked out.

She stared at her cup, determinately not watching him walk away. She still heard him, though, and the precise moment she could no longer hear his footsteps. She felt so alone, and sick.

She hadn't yet eaten anything and wondered if she would, later. If she could stand eating now. She didn't know. She had no answers.

She listened to the easy banter between her colleagues and wanted once more to sob, or sing something crazy loud, and shamelessly, totally shamelessly. She just wanted to purge everything from inside of her, throw everything away and call it back, piece by piece, only after very thorough inspection. She wanted to be better. To be Etta.

She left and stood in the women's restroom, merely staring at herself, trying to reconcile the image she saw with the person inside. She looked like Etta and pretty much like she always did, but nothing was the same anymore.

No, everything had gone to hell, and she hadn't thought it was possible for her life to get even more fucked up. She'd thought she would always find a way through the storm to the sunshine in the morning.

God, had she been fucking wrong.

Kitty sniffed, humming her favorite blues tune as she sat at the table, reading her mail. The letter she was reading made her laugh. Not for a second did she believe a word of it. Her communicator trilled and she reached for it. "Hullo, hun."

She listened to the man speaking on the other end of the line, the happy vibe she'd been feeling when she got out of bed that morning evaporating.

"I understand," she said in a very small voice.

So then, there went her one good day.

Ella padded through the apartment she shared with her mother, Rachel, in the special complex set aside for valued assets such as herself. Etta had gone to great lengths so that they were allowed to have a place of their own and to give them visitation rights so that they could leave and visit her. Today, Ella had the urge to visit her younger cousin.

She stopped by the window and felt the sunlight warm on her cheeks. She could no longer see anything but she remembered. Oh, she remembered. She turned away from the warmth streaming in through the window when she heard Rachel come into the room.

"There's a letter for you, baby," Rachel told her.

They sat down on the couch together so that Rachel could read it to her. A couple of times, Rachel stopped reading, upset or disbelieving. When she had finished, she left the room. Ella still heard every word she said to Etta, whom she had called at work. Rachel was scared, but Ella was not.

When they saw her, saw her scars and learned that she was blind, incapable, nobody wanted her. Nobody had wanted her for a very long time.

She smiled to herself, pressed close to the wall so that she could hear Rachel's voice. Finally, she might find someone to hold her at night, someone warm.

People said that she wasn't right in the mind, that she was disturbed, but Ella knew that was rubbish. Her mother always told her she was perfect and she believed what her mother said, even if she only said it because she loved her.

.

Donald frowned at the letter he was holding. He didn't often receive mail but whenever he did, he grew quietly suspicious. He was suspicious now and it wasn't a good feeling for him.

He decided to read the letter before he did anything crazy like burn it. Once he had read it, he promptly decided on some serious crazy action and set it on fire. He didn't feel bad for having done so, he only felt bad that though the letter was gone, nothing, absolutely nothing could change what had been written in it.

He did not need this distraction. He didn't want it.

He went to lie down, too upset to do anything else. It wasn't that he wanted to be upset, in fact, he really didn't, it was just something that happened. Thankfully, it wasn't such a regular occurrence and he had learnt to live with it, to accept it rather than merely becoming more upset because of it.

He never allowed it to manifest itself as anger. That would have been unacceptable. He simply allowed himself to feel the anguish and helplessness and waited for it to ease, waited until he came back to himself again.

.

Etta arrived at Rachel and Ella's with takeout. Rachel hugged her and allowed her inside, closing the door after her. Ella didn't feel like hugging anyone apart from whomever it was who'd been chosen for her, just for her. Besides, she knew Etta wasn't a big fan of hugging, that, in fact, hugging frightened her, always made her think of goodbyes. Not an encouraging association, in truth.

"Hello, Etta."

"Hey, Ells!" Etta greeted.

Ella didn't frown right away, not until Rachel had left to take the food to the kitchen. Then she moved away from the wall and allowed her worry to show on her face. "What's wrong?"

Etta used her happy voice, bright like Olivia's had once been. "Nothing!"

Ella wasn't fooled. She let it drop, nodding mutely. They ate the food in the kitchen; Rachel didn't pick up on what she had picked up on, or else, if she did, she said nothing.

When she left, Ella allowed herself to hug Etta. The love she felt for her younger cousin overflowed and tumbled out of her violently, dragging every last ounce of energy forcibly from her body as it did. She barely had the strength to let go and allow her cousin to leave. She wasn't sure that she wanted to. She'd much rather Etta be safe.

"I love you," she whispered to the door, long after Etta had gone and Rachel had gone upstairs. She let her strength slowly return, pressed close to the solid, supportive door, smiling at nothing.

It took longer than usual.

Whilst Etta visited a medical clinic for tests, Ella was smoothing her skirt across her legs, nervously waiting. Rachel had come with her, of course, but Rachel was not allowed to wait with her.

She wondered if she was blushing. She hoped not. But probably, she thought. That was just her, wasn't it? She was suddenly afraid this was all a big joke, some funny joke. She wasn't perfect; she wasn't even pretty anymore. Why would anyone want her? Why would the Observers choose her?

"Hello."

She'd been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't heard the man come in. Now, she leapt to her feet, worried and eager all at once. Her stomach felt weirdly light, like it was filled with butterflies. She didn't know if the man was hers, but she hoped so.

"Hello!" she whispered, trying not to be too happy or emotional. He'd probably think her creepy then and she didn't want that. She only wanted him to like her, to want to keep her.

"My name is Donald," the man told her.

"I'm Ella."

"It's good to meet you, Ella," he said.

"Yes, you too," she agreed. Suddenly, she was filled with doubt. What an ordinary name. Was it even his real name? She knew that Observers didn't go for that sort of thing so maybe this man wasn't hers.

She bit her lip. There was also the fact that he was talking to her and not merely at her. Since when did that happen, realistically? He didn't even sound like an Observer. Nobody of her own kind had ever wanted her before and she was sure this man wouldn't either, if he was indeed to be hers. He was too normal and she was not. He would prefer someone else who was normal like he was, in the end. He probably wouldn't even be able to help it.

She shook her head. She didn't mean to be so paranoid. She really didn't enjoy it. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know I'm not perfect. Would you please tell me if this is a joke?"

"A joke?" he asked.

"You're not…" She cut herself short, tried to think of a way to phrase it that wouldn't antagonize matters further. "You don't sound like them. The Observers."

"Yes."

She refrained from correcting him. He didn't need correcting, he was right. He'd merely been confirming that what she'd said was right. It was hard not to say anything, but she managed it. She would only freak him out, and though she was sad, she didn't want to freak anybody out.

She sat down again. The man was still standing where he'd been when he'd first come into the room. She wished Rachel would come back. She was sad and lonely now. She wished the man would leave. She could tell he didn't want her, even when she wasn't freaking him out. Or maybe she already had, merely by being herself and by looking the way she did.

After a while, the man walked over and sat down in one of the chairs beside hers. She pretended not to notice. Maybe he would merely assume she hadn't; he was an Observer, after all, and they were often rather unthinking when it came to Natives.

For a long while then neither of them said anything. Ella kept having to remind herself that his name was Donald. And yes, it was just a regular name. Some of them did have regular names; the higher ups, she supposed. That didn't help; she only began to wonder if he was a higher up, and if he had killed anyone, or maybe just tortured them? She suddenly wasn't so sure she could forgive something like that, even if forgiveness was the first step to healing, or whatever.

She decided to say something, just anything, to hopefully change the mood of her thoughts. She didn't think about what she was going to say beforehand, she just opened her mouth and spoke. "You smell nice."

Clearly, not thinking about it had been a mistake. Her cheeks burned. She very much imagined the man was staring rather intently at the exit now, even if he was an Observer and Observers always remained cool under pressure. That was before they'd met her.

She almost laughed at her own ridiculousness.

"I…" There was a long pause as Donald tried to think of something else to add to what he'd already said. "Oh."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, smoothing her skirt over her thighs compulsively. "Are you… okay?"

"I am okay, Ella."

She nodded. She didn't turn to face him. She was thinking about her milky eyes and the unsightly marks on her face. She thought of something to say, careful not to just blurt the first thing that came into her mind, even if it was true. "It's a nice day."

"The weather is pleasant," he agreed.

She sighed, lifting her hands from her lap and placing them back on her legs. "Okay, I have to say it. This is all _very_ irregular."

"Hmm."

She looked around at him, though she couldn't see him. He could still see her. She brushed some of her brown hair behind her ear. "You should… ask for somebody else," she said plainly. It was the right thing to do and she felt better once she'd said it, though slightly sadder than before.

"I did not ask for this to begin with," he replied, somewhat bitterly.

She didn't say a thing back. She rather felt as if someone had ripped her heart out and stomped on it. Why would he say something like that? He wasn't a real Observer, clearly, because of the little she knew of Observer kind, they did not whine. They didn't complain. They complied with whatever their boss told them to do.

She touched her ear, untucked her hair so it could resume obscuring her face.

"I did not mean to insinuate that you were… a problem," he finally said, by way of apology, she supposed.

She waved a hand in front of her, as if waving his words away. "I am a problem. You would only be telling the truth. It's not wrong to tell the truth, Donald." It felt weird, saying his name when she was sure it was not, in fact, his real name, but as Observers weren't usually given names, it was better than nothing, even if he hadn't chosen it himself because that was something else they weren't given: choice.

He tilted his head, searching for something to say to dispute this comment, but of course, Ella didn't see this. She didn't see anything. He wanted to say something about… about mood, and the appropriate utilization of the truth, of the reveal of truth, but the proper words didn't touch his mind. It was all a jumble, understandable only to him.

He winced, wondering when this was all going to end. He was sure he had things to be doing, plans to be going on with.

"You are not the only problem in this room, Ella," he said, at last. "I am also… problematic. I am… irregular."

"You're fine," she replied thoughtlessly. To her mind, it was only the truth. There was nothing at all wrong with him.

"For your kind, perhaps not, but for mine, oh yes!"

"You are an Observer?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

"What are you thanking me for, Ella?"

"You're very kind."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"Well, thank you for seeing the merit in such a thing."

She smiled a little. "No problem."

"Do you understand what is being asked of us?"

"I think so. I mean, yes. I do. I understand. I… I don't mind. I wouldn't want to… do anything wrong. Unlawful, I mean." She laughed briefly. "I don't think I'd like it in prison. Too… too drab."

He didn't laugh at her little attempt at humor. He said, "Then I shall comply also."

"If… if I didn't want to, would you be punished too?"

"I have no idea."

"Do you really want to?"

"It is what they want."

"No, they want everything. You don't get everything you want. Everyone knows that. Who says they should get this, too? I don't think so."

"Ella."

She caught the intonation in his tone. "Are you reprimanding me?" she demanded, before she could reconsider her own tone.

"I'm only looking out for you."

"I don't need looking out for!"

"I would disagree," he replied.

"You're not my dad!" she snapped, her voice too high.

"No," he said, very plainly all of a sudden.

Ella figured she'd overstepped the mark. He was pissed at her now, or something. "Whatever," she said. Then, because it would have been important to her, to any regular person, "I'm not married and I don't have a boyfriend so I guess we don't have a problem, do we?" She didn't mean to sound so bitchy, her voice just came out that way. "You don't have anyone, do you?"

He was quiet for couple of seconds, then he said, "No."

She supposed he was telling the truth. He was an Observer, after all. If they were married to anything at all it was world domination. With a sigh, she asked, "What do we do now?"

She heard him stand up and took her feet in response. She supposed there was someone they had to talk to now, to verify their compliance or something. She was waiting to hear which way he walked so that she could follow him when he walked up to her and touched her cheek, not even bothered about the scars.

Her heart skipped a beat and she felt flustered all of a sudden, wishing Rachel would come in and rescue her. Or maybe Etta, in typical kick-ass style. She imagined Etta kicking the door down and stalking over to the man and grabbing him by the ear, declaring coolly, "All right, you! Hands off of the crazy girl!" She giggled at that picture. It was then that she realized that she'd giggled. Her cheeks colored. Argh! Was she trying to unnerve this guy? And what the hell, just what the hell?!

Before she could say anything, he had leaned closer and kissed her. It was a very innocent type of kiss but the sheer amount of emotion it brought welling up inside her was painful and she couldn't help from pushing him away from her with as much force as she could muster, before she dropped to the floor and just lay there in a sad, messy heap.

She didn't know if she had screamed or not, she just knew other people came shortly thereafter and Donald was taken away. She was taken away, dosed with something that knocked her out.

Her last thoughts, before the drug whisked her away, were that she'd really screwed things up, and she wished she could have apologized to Donald. It really wasn't his fault.

Kitty turned away from the window as the door opened. The smile she had been practicing for the last ten minutes didn't reach her lips much less her eyes. "Now, now, Kitty," she whispered to herself. "Just because your skin is crawling- Oh, hell! There's no use in lying to yourself, girl. This is gonna be super bad!"

.

Etta stared rather blankly at a scuff mark on the table she was sitting at with her Peter and Olivia. She'd let them know there was stuff they needed to talk about but now that they were here, she couldn't think of a single thing she wanted to say.

She looked up from the table, meeting neither her mother's gaze nor her father's. Walter and Astrid were elsewhere, she supposed. At the lab, most probably. She rubbed her hand across her cheek. "You… I've told you guys about Keystone already."

Olivia nodded, ready with a supportive smile, and Peter started to frown.

"I… was chosen. A couple of weeks ago. I should have told you. I meant to tell you. I was scared. I'm still scared." She rubbed her cheek again. "I just found out I'm pregnant."

Olivia had turned away and was hiding her face in Peter's hair. He rubbed her back in a vaguely consoling manner but there was no screaming, not even a single death threat.

Etta didn't know whether to be happy or seriously worried.

At long last, Peter sighed. "We're not angry at you, Etta."

Olivia sat up properly, her eyes snapping to those of her daughter. "Oh, I'm angry! I'm crazy angry!"

Peter glanced at her with a mixture of concern and alarm.

She ignored him and leaned closer to the table, her gaze intent on Etta's. "Tell me his name. Tell me where he lives. I swear I won't hurt him, baby. I just want to talk."

Etta didn't believe her. She would have been happy for her mom to end him but she knew the only one who would end up dead out of that equation would be Olivia. She dropped her face into her hands. "Windmark. It's Windmark."

Olivia was on her feet in a heartbeat, gun drawn and all ready to go, crazy eyes in full deploy mode. She was ready to end the creep, even if she had to die trying.

Peter stood up and placed a hand over hers, lowering the gun. Then he pulled her into his arms and held her, saying absolutely nothing.

Etta didn't look. She couldn't look. She knew how much of a mess she'd made for them and the plan. She'd really fucked things up and even though she'd really had no choice, she felt guilty as hell for it.

Peter kissed Olivia's hair, rubbing her back again for just a moment. Then she stepped apart from him and directed her gaze to Etta, holstering her gun once more.

Etta lifted her face out of her hands, at a complete loss. She didn't know what to say, what to do, anything. She didn't know anything. She hated it.

"We love you _so much_!" Olivia told her feelingly, and her eyes broke Etta's heart, as they always did. She had no idea how her mom did that, how she trusted again, loved again, she only knew she was so proud, she couldn't even put it into words and never would.

She nodded mutely, didn't have to say she loved them just as much. They already knew.

.

Ella awoke in her mother's arms and began to scream and scream. She couldn't help it, couldn't say what she wanted to say, "I love you. I missed you. I'm sorry I let you down. I let us all down." She just screamed. It was all she could do.

.

Etta rode the elevator up to Windmark's apartment alone. The quiet was far from comforting, was merely the lull before the storm. She was shaking practically all over her body. She'd had to wear flats because she'd been too unsteady to stand in heels. She'd been shaking ever since she'd learned she was pregnant, and visibly practically since she'd left from seeing her mom and dad. When the elevator doors opened to the correct floor, she took her time walking to Windmark's door. She gave herself a few fleeting moments before she raised her hand and knocked on the door.

Seated primly in the living room filled with sunshine, her feet pressed close together on the floor and the backs of her legs touching the seat, she looked up into Windmark's eyes. She'd kept him waiting long enough. Long enough for comfort, anyhow, and she had to think of the child now. Standing to her feet, she said, "I just got the news today. No more than five hours ago. I didn't think it judicious to convey such information…" She shook her head suddenly, pressing a hand to her mouth. Then she said, "I'm pregnant. It worked. We're having a baby."

He had seemingly nothing to say to that. He merely continued to watch her.

She sat back down heavily, slightly feeling outside of herself. The sunlight warming her face was so strange she merely wished to bat it away, to be left alone in relative peace. She was so tired now.

He walked nearer, stopping in front of her. "We…"

She looked up, into his eyes.

"We haven't seen a lot of each other in recent weeks," he finished what he'd been saying.

He was talking crap, didn't know what the hell he was saying. They hadn't seen each other outside of work since that night they had first had sex. She'd been willing and ready to think of that as a good thing.

"A lot?" she said, just slightly mockingly, her tone hollow, noticeably weary. She didn't need this shit now, not bloody now.

He touched her shoulder, gave it a painful squeeze. He had to know he was stronger than she was, that he was hurting her; he was just being himself. In other words, a regular bastard.

She slapped his hand away harshly, her eyes surprisingly hard. Even that hurt.

He retaliated by grabbing hold of her arms and yanking her to her feet. "Our agreement stipulates-"

She screamed. Just screamed at the top of her lungs. Didn't give a damn who heard. She didn't stop.

He planted a hand over her mouth, glaring. Yeah, he thought she was crazy, too.

The first words out of her mouth when he took his hand from her mouth were a hateful hiss. "Fuck you!"

She backed him against the wall with force enough to register as such and directed her hands to his pants. She wasn't some dullard, she could read _him_ well enough and she didn't need to be insane to do so.

He actually gasped when she plunged her hands into his pants, grasping his already hard length in her hands. Ridiculously, he asked, "What are you doing?"

"I thought you liked it when I did shit," she growled, and then she got down on her knees and stuffed his cock into her mouth. She certainly wasn't in the mood to put it anywhere else. She grabbed his hand and rested it on her head, sucking him off as best as she knew how. He was an ass but if he could pull that shit, she could pull it right back.

She didn't care what his ideas of normal sexual encounters were, if he thought a blowjob unnatural or simply filthy, all she cared about was messing his mind up enough to get him off her back and that would only happen after she'd gotten him off. She didn't know any other way to put him off his game.

.

Windmark was presumably recovering from her evil deeds. Etta had done what she was supposed to do. If she could just pick herself up and head for the door, she reasoned, she was free to go. She was working up to it. Meanwhile, she was hunched over, sobbing again. It was honestly as if she really was some weak idiot. She was truthfully disgusted with herself over the whole thing.

She let herself lie down on the floor, just too tired to do anything else, and let herself cry herself to sleep.

When she woke, it was dark outside. Her hair was a fucking mess and she felt like being ill. Struggling into a sitting position, she noticed Windmark watching her, looking as tidy as he always did. She wanted to fucking punch him but she knew she didn't have a chance in hell of one upping him. He wipe the floor with her for sure; would probably expect the baby to put up with that shit, too. Wouldn't even consider the baby, in all likelihood.

She wondered if her words had even made an impact on him, if he'd fully understood what the fuck she meant when she'd said she was pregnant, that they were having a baby. It was entirely possible that the whole thing had sailed right over his head.

He offered her the bowl in his hands, containing some sort of breakfast cereal drowned in milk.

She couldn't be bothered fighting him and just took the bowl, resigning herself to eating whatever it was.

He didn't leave but continued to watch her creepily the whole time. She picked a piece of cereal out of the bowl and flicked it at him at one point but he didn't even flinch. She rolled her eyes, went on eating her cereal.

When she was done, he took the bowl out of her hands and set it down on the floor, rising to a stand. "Come with me."

She remained sitting on the floor. "No."

He bent down and pulled her into his arms, lifting her off the floor against her will. She screamed. He carried her into the hallway, headed for some other room. When he set her down on her feet again, she found herself in what looked to be the bathroom. She sniffed, wiped her nose on the back of her hand. She wasn't too proud to show just how shitty she was feeling.

He touched her hair a moment, then turned and walked out. Apparently, she was invited to take a shower.

She didn't even remove her clothes, just stepped under the streaming warm water and tipped her face up into the pounding water.

He returned from the kitchen where he'd been washing the bowl and spoon she'd used earlier to find her standing in his living room, dripping water onto the floor.

"There's no soap."

He strode toward her, took her chin in his hand and kissed her none too softly.

4.

Ella sat mutely, pills in hand. They were new pills. Nobody liked her deviant behavior, least of all the Observers. She had been ordered to take her new pills and not to complain. She wasn't complaining, not that. She popped the pills into her mouth and swallowed them with some water.

Rachel didn't hug her before bed, didn't wish her goodnight. She was afraid, Ella sensed, afraid that she'd start screaming again and someone would say something.

Lying in bed in the dark, Ella wished she could have been someone different, someone like the person she'd been before the Observers had come to wreak havoc on her world. Someone that someone else could conceivably love.

.

When she next met up with Donald, Ella was so numb as to be unaware of her surroundings. It was only through a massive feat of will that she was able to maintain a sincere, attentive exterior. Inside, everything was so damned spacey.

Donald had come to visit her at her place of residence and Rachel had begrudgingly left them alone. She knew very well what was expected of them and she was waiting in the kitchen with the frying pan close to hand if her daughter should scream and she should be forced to intervene. She wasn't sure Ella was coherent enough to scream, but if she did, she would be there in a flash.

In the living area, Ella sat down beside Donald on the couch. Satisfied that she was not merely imagining his presence, she first touched his arm, then his face. Definitely not her mom, and not anybody she had really got to know, either. Of course, she knew it was him. She already recognized his voice. He had a beautiful voice and she decided that she liked to hear it, would like to hear more of it.

She rested her head on his shoulder for a long while, snuggling closer so she could smell his skin. He even smelled beautiful. The new pills had done something to her shame factor, had fucked it up somehow. She'd been really quite crazy all this week and today was no exception to the rule.

Eventually, and without reason of rhyme, she stood up. "Come and see my room," she chirped excitedly, slurring her words somewhat. "Come, I'll show you." She offered him her hand. "It's okay. I'm better now. You can touch me if you like."

He placed his hand in hers and they walked to her room. She switched the light on so that he would be able to see, even though the buzz of the light irritated her. It didn't do so much to her today and she took that for what it was, a good thing.

She closed her bedroom door and crossed to her bed slowly, sitting down. A quick glance around was all that was needed to take in the full extent of her room and its décor. It wasn't anything special, she supposed. She didn't need anything special.

She patted a spot on the mattress beside her and Donald came to sit down with her. "Are you okay today?" she asked.

"I am okay, Ella," he confirmed.

"I'm sorry for hurting you."

"You did not hurt me." He paused, then continued with a frown in his voice. "Not greatly. I accept your apology."

She smiled and turned to him, holding out her hands. He placed his hands in hers and she smiled all the more. She fancied she could just about hear his heart beating faster. "Do you want to kiss me again? I don't mind. I won't stop you this time."

He pulled his hands away from hers silently.

She couldn't help but be hurt. "What are you thinking about?" she asked. "Do you want to change your mind? Do you want someone else now?"

"I think this is crazy," he replied with a sigh.

She touched his face, comforted by the solidness of him. He wasn't just her imagination, some crazy dream. He was real, and warm.

She dropped her hands to her cardigan and shrugged it off, letting it drop where it would. It flopped onto the floor but she didn't notice. She began to unbutton her blouse, teddy bear button by teddy bear button.

When she had removed her blouse also, she reached for his face once more, saying softly, "Let's be friends, okay? Good friends. I promise not to hurt you."

He shifted so that he could rest his head against hers, then he kissed her forehead. "I won't hurt you, either," he whispered.

.

Rachel sat in the kitchen with her face in her hands, silent tears leaking through her fingers to land on the kitchen floor. She couldn't help but cry. This wasn't the way things were supposed to be; this wasn't how Ella's life was supposed to go. Everything was wrong and there was nothing she could do to fix it. She couldn't even protect her baby anymore.

.

Ella wasn't sure when her feelings had shifted, she only knew that she was losing control. She was slipping. She felt the old pains returning and she wanted to stamp it down, stamp it right out, but it was craftier, faster than she was. It wanted out and it didn't give a damn about her or what she wanted.

She began to whimper, as a prelude to full on screaming, and that effectively put an end to any snuggling and soft, explorative kisses that were going on. She scooted to the head of her bed, right into the corner, and grabbed up her pillow, pressed her face into it. When she finally let loose her screams, they were muffled by the pillow but no less shameful, no less painful.

Donald made no move to comfort her. He wasn't sure what would set her off so he didn't do anything. He only tried not to be hurt, not to hurt for her.

Finally, when she had screamed her fill and the urge had left her, when she was too sore and her throat to weak to scream any longer, she simply became silent, simply stopped screaming. She wished she could have stopped breathing, stopped her heart from beating. She didn't want to be this way anymore. She wanted Donald to kiss her again.

The pain was there, but fuzzy. So fuzzy. The tiredness took hold of her body and she slumped against the wall. Finally, Donald came to sit with her by the bed head and helped her to lay her head down in his lap, stroking her hair gently.

She didn't know why he would risk it, she was just thankful that he had. It was hard to speak but she managed it somehow. She had no choice. She knew they didn't have forever. "I won't fight you," she whispered. "I can't. Please."

He hummed a soothing tune for her, stroking her hair still. She knew he had heard her, he was just choosing not to react.

"They'll hurt my mother," she whispered, pleading with him with the small strength left in her. "Please help."

He stopped stroking her hair. A tear dripped from his face and landed on her cheek. She knew that what she was asking of him was too much, would always be too much, but she couldn't stand the thought that her mother might pay the price for her incapability.

"I promised I wouldn't hurt you."

"You won't be." The truth was, she would be hurting herself. It would not be him, no matter what he thought. It was an acceptable sacrifice. He was already more than she could have hoped for. A friend and the first in a long, long time. She didn't know how she was going to make this up to him but she didn't have a lot of time. They needed to act fast. "Please, Donald!"

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, placing a gentle kiss upon her head, then he helped her to lie down on the bed because she was too weak to do even that and her body wasn't co-operating, randomly convulsing against her will. The spasms took the last of her energy but not her capacity to experience pain. That particular ability was very much alive and kicking.

He didn't waste a lot of time removing any clothes, either his own or the remainder of hers. Ella preferred to be awake for what was about to happen and so they had to put a rush on it.

There was an awkward while whilst he got himself into the right state physically and Ella really wanted to cry. It wasn't fair of her to ask this of him, not at all fair. She focused on the sound of his heavy breathing to try to settle herself and when he was ready and he moved over her, settling in between her legs, when his hands touched her, the pain twisted through her like all the force of a tidal wave.

He had to place a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet so that Rachel wouldn't hear, and that on top of all the rest of it. She honestly didn't know how she expecting him to make it work out, she just knew she was praying through the crazy pain to that ends. He would come through for her.

She was able to remain conscious for a half hour and then she passed out, completely drained.

She didn't wake again for several days. When she was able, she asked her mother what had happened. Rachel grew stiff and merely relayed that Donald had left. Ella would have to wait for his next visit, if Rachel ever let him back in, to ask him how it had gone.

.

She woke, several days later, to a familiar scent, and a smile worked its way onto her face. "You smell nice," she murmured, slowly opening her eyes and sitting.

"Thank you," Donald whispered.

She didn't try to touch him and he didn't touch her. She picked at her blanket and frowned. There really was no delicate way to ask what needed to be asked. "Did it work?" she asked.

"I hope so."

She reached for him, changed her mind, put her hand back down. Her lip wobbled. "I won't ever ask you to do that again. My word. You have to know that I am so sorry. So sorry, Donald."

He simply said, "We got through it. That's the pertinent thing."

She started to cry. She really wanted him to hold her but they both knew that would be a bad idea. She clasped her blanket in her fist and let her tears fall.

.

Several weeks later, she was informed that she was pregnant, but that her body was her own worst enemy. It was slowly killing her baby, slowly but surely. There was nothing to be done.

A week later, she went to hospital with excruciating pain. She was given meds for that and she faded. When she regained consciousness, she was told her baby was gone. She didn't cry one tear. She didn't believe she had the right. She had killed her own baby, and not just her baby, Donald's baby. She was a killer.

When Donald next came to visit, she wouldn't see him. Rachel had to tell him the news herself. She cried almost the entire time. She showed him the letter she had received in the mail just a day after her unborn grandchild was declared dead. It said that Ella had been released from her duties in regards to the agreement. She told him that he would probably be receiving a similar letter himself. Then she asked him never to return and showed him out, only whispering "good luck" as she closed the door on him.

_The best things grow from the worst disasters / The best things grow when we begin again_

– from "Go Faster Stripes", performed by Kat Flint

5.

Etta sat on her bed, legs crossed and headphones covering her ears as music overwhelmed all of her senses. She needed this distraction, needed to feel whole again through this connection with her culture, her species and their particular brand of self and shared expression. Hope, really. She needed hope.

She had never once imagined she would have the time or safety to begin a family, or that she would be doing so with someone she hated to the deepest recesses of her being, that she would be bringing a child into such a world, a world in which she could only offer so much comfort and security, where nothing was certain but for her inferiority, her un-importance.

At long last, she removed her headphones and began to get herself together, to get ready for a new day. She was visiting Rachel and Ella today; she would have to dig deep.

.

When she arrived at Rachel and Ella's, Rachel took her into the kitchen and informed her in a very careful, quiet voice that Ella was sleeping. She had had a terrible ordeal these last few weeks, to be truthful. Finally, Rachel told her about the agreement.

Etta didn't know what to say. Overcome with fury, she was having trouble thinking straight just then. Ella was innocent, she had never done a thing wrong, and very troubled. Why someone would do this to her was beyond Etta's comprehension, that they would not only manipulate her into agreeing to their crazy scheme but one of her assets too was simply unthinkable, and overkill overload. Ella couldn't possibly be anything they would ever want. More likely, they had only wished to cause her more pain, to really make their point – that they controlled everything and could do bloody anything they liked without censure.

It was some sick shit, all right.

Etta knew what the topic of her next pleasant conversation with her associate would be: his imminent death.

She assured Rachel that this would not occur again and left to see Ella, ignoring Rachel's plea to leave it alone. She had to know how Ella was, wasn't about to walk out that door until she found out, until she saw it with her own two eyes. Rachel's word was not enough; not when it came to her cousin.

Ella wasn't sleeping. She was sitting in one corner of her bedroom tracing an infinity symbol on the floor. Over and over. She didn't look up when Etta walked in, closing the door behind her.

Etta knelt on the floor in front of her, smiling softly though Ella wouldn't be able to see her do so; she would know, either way. "Hello, sweetheart."

Ella laughed darkly, almost choking on her breath in the attempt.

"I'm so very sorry for what happened to you," Etta told her. "I'm kicking the shit out of myself right now. Tell me what I can do? How can I help? Oh God, Ells – _can_ I help?"

Ella lay down on the floor, closing her eyes. "Mommy won't let Donald see me. It was Donald's baby, too. Why don't you ask him if there's anything you can do for _him_ and leave me the fuck alone?!" She picked her hand up and brought it to her mouth, sinking her teeth into her wrist with force, a muffled cry of pain escaping her throat. She didn't seem all that bothered, she didn't stop biting herself.

Etta winced, unsure what to do. She knew Ella had her problems, her obstacles to overcome daily. She wanted to take Ella's wrist from her mouth and hold her. They could have cried together. If Ella had been okay, she would have done just that. As she wasn't, Etta just watched on helplessly, trying to remain strong.

"I want Donald," Ella said, plain-voiced.

Etta filed the name away for future reference, pondering the significance of such a name choice. For an Observer, it was actually rather befitting. If she recalled corrected, Donald meant something like "supreme leader", or was that "ruler of the world"? With their lust for world domination, it was nigh on a perfect fit. Either the name was coming back into fashion after a hundred years or it was Observer humor. She didn't laugh. Offered a short shrug. Maybe she'd ask Windmark when she was throttling him.

"What's he like, your Diggory?"

"Donald."

She shrugged again. Obviously, Ella wasn't one of those girls; the type who collected names and the meanings of for future reference, who imagined all of the cute little kids they'd have when they finally met Mr. Right. And she was a major ass, pulling some pseudo humorous shit at a time like this. Fuck, her baby was fine, what the hell right did she have cracking jokes?

She resisted the urge to slap herself. She'd upset Ella. "Right. What's he like?"

"I like him very much."

"Not what I asked, Ells."

"He's a good person," Ella said.

"Oh, so he's a person now, is he?"

Ella sat up abruptly, murky eyes fierce. "Just what do you mean by that, Henrietta?!" she growled.

Etta held her hands up in surrender. "He's an Observer, Ella. I think you know what I mean."

"He's not like the others. He's different. He's nice." She scowled. "I like him."

"I'm sensing that."

"Don't you dare make fun of me, Henrietta!" Ella growled.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Ella."

"What's yours like?"

Etta wasn't surprised. Ella had crazy skills, really. She could be mad as hell but she wasn't only mad, and Etta couldn't begrudge her her shameless methods. She loved her too much. She answered plainly, "It is my dearest wish to be the one who ends him."

"That nice, huh?"

"Oh yeah."

"I won't tell Mom," Ella whispered, her tone suddenly taking on a girlish air. They were best friends again, it seemed. She frowned, concerned. "Did he hurt you?"

Etta winked, going for an edge of amusement. Something to laugh at. "I gave as good as I got, babes!" On a more serious note, she added, "Yeah, he hurt me. He hurt me by existing."

Ella touched her pretty blonde hair, stroking the side of Etta's head a little. She removed her hand with a pained frown.

"So, Donald, huh?" Etta nodded. "I have investigative prowess. Ooh yeah! I'll find Donald. I won't kick his ass – much! We'll have a nice chat."

"Don't hurt him."

"Nah. I save that shit for hubs. He's kinky like that." She sighed heavily. "I'm so fuckin' sorry about your baby, Ells. I don't just say that."

"I know," Ella whispered.

"I love you," Etta told her plainly.

Ella made a strangled noise in her throat and leapt to her feet, rushing to her bed and throwing herself down on her mattress face-first, burying her face in her pillow.

Etta stood up, staring down at her shoes. She nodded. Okay, okay, she understood. Ella loved her too, and she was an idiot, a selfish idiot. She left, pulling the door closed. Time to go, she supposed.

She hugged Rachel, asked if there was anything she needed, and took her leave.

.

It was one of those days. Etta was supposed to meet Windmark later at his place. She danced around her bedroom, laughing entirely too much. Well, sure, she couldn't _kill_ him, but she could sure try. She dug out her one dress and slipped it on, hunting around for a tube of lipstick. She felt like dressing up tonight. Maybe she could convince ole Win to take her out on the town. _As if._

She pulled a jacket on over her dress. It probably looked massively unco but she didn't care. It was her favorite jacket and it was kick-ass, end of discuss.

.

In the hallway, she turned smoldering eyes and a seductive smile on some men walking by. "Well hello, boys!"

They didn't pause, didn't seem bothered.

She laughed airily. Had already known Observers couldn't take a damned joke; wished, just once, that they weren't such cold jerks.

When Windmark came to the door to let her in, she was holding her pumps in her hand, grinning. "Aren't you glad to see me, baby?" she asked drunkenly. She wasn't drunk, just crazy-feeling. This was her attempt at being kind, at forgiveness. At being the better person.

He took hold of her upper arm and pulled her inside, shutting the door quickly.

She couldn't help but laugh, letting her high heels drop to the floor. Her jacket joined her shoes soon after. She ran her hands down her body, moaning exaggeratedly. "Mmm." She kept her eyes on his, waiting, bit her bottom lip suggestively as her hands slipped between her legs and she caressed her thighs wantonly.

Staring right at her, Windmark seemed to be making a good approximation of a scowl – bonus points for him – and stepped closer abruptly.

She slapped him across the face, hard. The sound stung in her ears and her hands hurt like a bitch. Not for a second did she fool herself into believing she'd gotten one over him; he'd bloody let her hit him. He was a sick creep, so yeah, no further explain needed.

She glared at him with death in her cold, blue eyes. "You fucking prick! How dare you touch my cousin!"

He didn't blink.

She went on glaring, fuming. Her palms her itching to punch him out, to make an attempt, in the very least. She refrained, with effort.

He looked her up and down, cut his eyes back to hers. "This is different," he said, of her chosen attire.

"For you, _master_," she replied scathingly.

He touched her shoulder, more softly than he usually did.

She had the urge to push him away. He was using that creepy vibe on her again, the one she really detested, the one that made her feel like a juicy piece of meat or some fancy specimen.

He took his hand from her shoulder, smoothed a thumb across her bottom lip, painted remarkably a similar red to that of her dress. He was very much staring. He begun to lean closer, perhaps for a closer inspection, but changed his mind a moment later.

She grabbed the front of his clothes and pulled him to her, meshing her lips with his in a hot, hungry kiss. If he didn't want to, she definitely wanted to. Totally just for the hell of it.

Feeling for his hand, she snatched it up and placed it onto her ass, pressing her body close to his. Breaking for breath, she growled huskily against his lips, "You bad, bad man!" and wanted to laugh, laugh like a crazy woman.

She moaned – this was not shaping up to be her finest hour, at all – and kissed him again. And damn it, she needed this! Needed any distraction she could get. She was feeling kind of murderous right now.

A couple of minutes later, her back was pressed to the wall, her legs wrapped about his hips whilst he fucked her. She didn't fake a single thing, all of her moans and gasps were entirely real, her needy, grabby hands.

Shamelessly, she gasped, "Tap that shit, baby!" Whilst she was letting go and exorcising her demons, why not go for broke? There was really no need for pretence any longer. Fucked up as she was, she was determined to make this a healing experience for her. She didn't hold a fucking thing back.

Fucking against a wall? Uh-huh. Check that off the list. Sex on the couch? Not much of a couch, but yeah; done that, been there. Going for the kitchen now. Hmm – was the floor the better choice, or would the table be more risqué? Fuck, why not try both?

.

Henrietta Bishop was a strange creature, Windmark pondered. He didn't know what to make of her sometimes; wasn't sure if he should be more disgusted or more… whatever the opposite of disgust was. He might have been developing a begrudging respect for the woman, didn't really know what to make of that. Was he sick, or could he plead probable cause?

He had not asked for this.

Henrietta was sleeping in his bed right now; he was watching her. He wasn't sure why, it just seemed like the thing to do. He had decided that her attire had been chosen for a very specific reason. It was one of those Native things. Something to do with ambience and mood, the evocation of feelings, emotions and physical sensations. He was slowly coming to get the hang of some of these notions, to anticipate them, to factor their significance into his decision-making in some part.

The particular color she had selected – red – gave her skin a certain luster, a certain positive ambience, he supposed. Accentuated something in it for some specific ends. He gathered that she believed it to heighten, or bring to the forefront, her desirability. He wasn't sure that it had worked its magic on him tonight but it certainly hadn't hurt her cause.

He was still working through what that exact cause might be. He had no need to rush. He had all night.

Watching her as he was stirred him inside but he made no move to act on that stirring. He would allow her to sleep. They were contractually bound to uphold certain privileges of each other. This "rest period" was one such privilege.

He leaned nearer and pressed his face to her hair. He had seen it done before and was curious as to the significance of such an act. He had made a checklist of probably _pros_ through his research. It was this mental checklist that he took out now, pondering over a couple of points. Her hair was soft and warm, and perhaps, from the viewpoint her own kind, pleasantly scented.

He closed his eyes. Had she deliberately made it so, somehow; put in all this effort for whatever her mystery cause was? Or had she done so for his benefit, because she still expecting him to be _something_ like her own kind?

He straightened up, displeased by the implications of that thought. He was not like her, or her disgusting kind. He was better, superior. He was not going to be allowing himself to be diseased by her, or by her the "charm" of "affections". He was no mere fool. He was, however, furious.

He glanced across at her, sleeping soundly in his bed. He suddenly had no idea why he hadn't kicked her out on her ass the second he'd had his fill of her. Impulsively, he climbed across the mattress, grabbing hold of her and turning her over onto her back. He settled on top of her and struck her over the face to rouse her from slumber.

When she was awake, he rearranged her garments the better for his intended purpose and roughly took possession of her body, holding her still with just his two hands. As he watched, her eyes filled up with water and ran over, her tears staining her cheeks. He made sure to give it to her good, to show her just who exactly was in charge here.

A mark was slowly forming on her face where he'd struck her and he idly thought of hitting her again. The mark would become more prominent, would hurt again. He struggled with his decision for a long few minutes. Finally, he decided against it. He had no wish to hear her pathetic sobbing.

Alternately, he dipped his face to hers and kissed her, noting with satisfaction the revulsion in her watery gaze. That was payback for her little stunt earlier.

Repulsed by the pathetic-ness that her kind so ably embodied, he tossed his earlier decision not to hit her out the window and slapped her across the face. The sound was arresting, close to beautiful. He hit her again, choosing someplace other than her face the third time, then he begun hitting her in earnest. She cried loudly and demonstrated just for him an impressive array of pathetic sounds as if she thought he would stop.

He didn't.

She looked up at him, straight into his eyes with her wobbly, pitiful eyes he didn't pity one iota and actually opened her mouth as if to reason with him, to try to talk him around. The rage inside him told him to backhand her just for that. Eyes pleading uselessly, she tearfully beseeched him: "Please don't hurt our baby."

_Our baby._ He raised a hand to smack that stupid look from her eyes. He stilled his hand midair. He considered her words. Their baby, _his_ baby. The baby she was carrying inside her belly belonged to both of them, to him as much as it did to her. It was true that he could have made a baby with any female of her kind, but she had been chosen for him by his superior. Their baby would be special, special because of her, because she wasn't one of those others but she was herself. If he had another baby with another female, it would not be this baby. _His_ first.

He put his hand back down. It was not correct for him to harm such a special possession, he supposed, cupping a hand to Henrietta's cheek as she blubbered incomprehensibly, clearly in the throes of some very serious distress.

A new kind of anger built inside him, an anger that was not directed at the pathetic woman underneath him but at himself for being so careless with his new possession. She had tricked him and displeased him, but he had reacted in excess and sought to avenge himself upon her, and by extension, his unborn offspring.

He climbed off her and dragged her limp form closer, settling her back roughly against his chest and placed a hand upon her belly. The child was not yet showing but this did not deter him. He pressed his face into her hair and whispered silently against her skin: _I made a mistake._

In life, there was always a first for everything. This was just one of those nights.

He held her for so long, waiting for some sign, some indication that he had not harmed their unborn offspring, that she fell asleep in his arms, exhausted and all cried out. It was only then that he allowed himself to say the words he had been waiting to utter, sure that the little creature growing inside her would hear and understand, understand that he had not meant to harm it but had merely acted carelessly: "I am sorry."

It hurt to say those words, and especially to an inferior being as he knew the child would be when finally it made its entrance out into the world, but it was special and had to be kept safe. His superior had implied that it was important for their future, for _his_ future. And, more than that, it was _his_.

And he was curious to see what became of it.

.

When next Henrietta stirred, disturbing him from his thoughts of far away places and times, Windmark saw that the marks on her face had taken on an unpleasant coloration that would surely signal to the world of his "abuse", justified or not. Knowing that her kind had a means of covering such marks, he told her to make them disappear.

Silent though she was, she didn't object. Struggling into her jacket at the door, she seemed relieved when she finally got it on, comforted in some manner. He opened the door and she left, carrying her shoes with her in one hand.

He closed the door directly, refraining from any lingering gazes. There was something that she did to him, that her proximity and her body did to his, that he could not yet control. He was not eager to encourage that aspect of himself. He had done enough.

.

Etta returned home and crawled into bed. She didn't even bother changing out of her clothes, just fell right to sleep, curled up into a ball with tears like diamonds upon her lips.

When she woke, she slowly got changed, pulling on her boots and lacing them meticulously. She walked out the door soon after, heading for the nearest medical clinic. She would lie, say anything, if they asked, she just needed to know her baby was okay. She just needed to know her baby wasn't hurt.

.

Windmark was distracted at work, thinking of the unborn child and the woman he had conceived the fetus with. The women he saw only made him think of Henrietta and he found himself considering their varied aspects. None of them interested him. They were not his. Ordinarily, he thought that he might be stimulated by the challenge in that, but not today. Today, he wasn't feeling "great", or greatly like his "usual" self, a seemingly apt Native notion.

At one point, he begun to tell himself that the notion of self was changeable, that he could, but force of will, alter it to his particular specifications. He reasoned that he could put the infernal Native woman from his mind if he applied himself wholly enough, and though the fact that it would require an "effort" was troubling when he could have been utilizing that particular portion of mind power he would be expending upon other matters of import, it was necessary.

For some hours, he kept up the fight. In the end, his efforts won out. At least until Broyles asked to see him and he was back to thinking about that damnable woman again.

.

He had just left Broyles's office and was heading for the exit when he happened to glance upon Henrietta, leaving for a job, he supposed, and he observed the way she manifested an air of strength and purpose through her walk. Knowing as he did that she was not strong, he couldn't help but finding surprise in the confident, competent persona she so ably projected. It was no doubt part of the reason she had been given her job, because she "fit the bill".

Before she could leave, one of her colleagues called out to her and she swung back around, her long hair swishing and brushing against her body with the movement. Her expression was not unhappy; she wasn't scowling at her co-worker. Her voice was companionable, when she spoke.

He directed his attention to her colleague; a man, he noted. They spoke for a few moments and Henrietta offered the man a smile such as she had never offered up for him. It was then that the man noticed he was being watched and went quiet, a flicker of fear crossing his face.

The second Henrietta's gaze collided with his, sending an uncomfortable wave of acknowledgement racing through him, the warmth faded right out of her eyes. She barely bit back a laugh. She touched the man's shoulder briefly whilst she thanked him and turned on her heel swiftly and walked away.

The man wore a troubled expression upon his face but he went back to his work duties, saying nothing. If he had noticed anything different about Henrietta, he wasn't jumping up and down to point it out.

Windmark dismissed the man from his thoughts with a rough shove and walked out after Henrietta, recalling now how the man had addressed her simply as Etta, a shortened form of her full first name that was often employed for the purposes of ease and, possibly, devilish subterfuge. He would not put anything past the Natives. They might have been savage but they were also capable of sizable deviousness and cunning.

Henrietta had just stopped beside her vehicle when he caught up to her.

"Etta." For one flailing moment, he was surprised at himself, surprised that that particular name had slipped from his mouth. He had actually been going for Henrietta.

"If you want to chat, Captain Windmark, have my boss arrange an appointment," she snapped. "You might have noticed I'm on a job." She turned away and grabbed the car door and pulled it open more forcefully than was strictly necessary.

"I am your boss's boss."

She rolled her eyes, a short, harsh laugh upon her lips. She snapped back around, a glare on her face. "What the fuck do you want, Windmark? Make it quick. Unlike you, I actually have a job to do. Meaningful shit, you know?"

Before he could get a tight hold of himself, the stinging insult implied in her tone and words sent a rush of rage coursing through his veins and he struck her across the face, knocking her back into her car, a move that only angered him further. What was it about this lowly creature that got to him in such a vicious, debilitating manner?

Preoccupied with his furiously swirling thoughts, he didn't immediately notice that Henrietta wasn't climbing into her car, slamming the door loudly as one final retort, and peeling out of the garage with overconfident abandon.

When he finally spied her lying unconscious on the grubby pavement, he couldn't understand how she had ended up there. He had only struck her once. She had not had this reaction when he had hit her before, and he had struck her many times.

Involuntarily, he took a step back. He had been so angry that she had made him lose control in front of his subordinates that he had discounted the previous blows he had rendered upon her. She had covered them up, as he had asked her to do, and he had somehow, in his distracted state, taken this to mean she was more or less unharmed. He realized, with disgust, that this woman was evil, that she debilitated him in some vital way. And his superior had set him up with her!

The idea was incomprehensible, simply incomprehensible. It _hurt_.

He stood there, staring at the unconscious woman lying at his feet, and contemplated leaving, just leaving. Her kind would come for her, would offer their assistance. And then he recalled the baby she was carrying, _his_ important possession, and he knew that he could not merely leave her, could not allow the possibility to arise that her kind could fail his baby.

He bent down to feel the pulse in the side of her neck. Finding it weak, he scooped her up into his arms and walked around her company car and yanked open the door, settling her into the passenger seat. Then he closed the door and walked around to the driver's side. Leaving the parking garage, he headed for a hospital.

Native women were too fragile, it was disgusting. Whatever reasons his superior had cited in choosing to interbreed their two kinds, he found the whole idea strongly objectionable and just plain idiotic.

Glancing around at Henrietta for the briefest of moments, he was tempted to scowl, to manifest his utter disgust in some measurable, observable manner. _Weak._

Standing by the door of her hospital room, Phillip couldn't help beating himself up over the fact that Etta had been in his office just a couple of hours previous and he hadn't noticed there was a damned thing wrong, that she was unwell.

Now, she was hooked up to all manner of machines, pale and weak and unconscious. The nurse had said she was yet to come round.

Whatever it was she'd said to Windmark that had prompted him to hit her, he couldn't help feeling it can't possibly have warranted such excessive force. Hell, he knew she had something of a penchant for recklessness and, if not open rebellion against the system, then quiet but not quite silent objection, but she was a good agent, a good person.

He pulled the chair closer and took a seat beside her bed. He had been working her too hard, had merely allowed her to set her own limits when he should have put in place some… something, anything, that could have prevented just this sort of thing from happening. He should have ordered her to take it down a notch, take it easy. She was pissed over what had happened with Foster and it was clouding her judgment. She obviously wished to prove herself as competent and trustworthy and she had gone overboard, with no one to check her. It should have been him. He was her boss.

But instead, he had failed her. As much as she had done this to herself, he had also inadvertently allowed her.

He had thought about letting loose on Windmark, had serious considered it, but it wasn't worth it, in the end. He needed to keep himself in the guy's good graces, to at least maintain some exterior of obedience and respect. He couldn't very well deck the guy, however much he might have wanted to.

Sighing, he stood up, touching Etta's arm momentarily, offering a reassuring squeeze. Then he headed out, back to work and hopefully the way of a something that would wake him up.

Pausing at the door, he silently sent her a wish that she get well soon.

.

Kitty found herself smiling warmly, filled with a complicated mixture of nostalgia, hope and deep, abiding sadness, standing on a raised platform behind an old-fashioned microphone in its stand singing her heart out. It was Native night, her favorite night of the month, and she was willing and ready to do her people proud, to fully live in the moment, a handful of moments to last a lifetime.

She was wearing a pretty dress, a smile was preferred, and she was allowed to sing. She thought that life couldn't possibly get better than this. Tonight, she didn't care what the Observers thought. What they thought didn't count. It was her night, _their_ night, and she was determined to give her brothers and sisters something to remember fondly, a night to live and die by. Her only wish was that Simon might have been around to share this with her. She knew she was only dreaming, had heard what had happened. He'd been caught, convicted. He was "wrong", or so they said.

She sent out a wordless prayer to the universe to keep Simon safe. Her next song was for him alone. She was sure he would have hated the whole idea of Native night; she was also fairly sure they would have had to agree to disagree, with her laughing all the while. Whilst Simon would be fuming about rampant subjugation and oppression, she would merely be humming a little song in her mind. There was always more than one meaning to every given situation and if she was pressed to choose, she would always choose the happier of them.

Her associate was about. Ole was his name apparently, though she preferred to think of him as Ole Ruben (it was slightly funny). He seemed to be feigning indifference, as if he didn't know her. She wondered if he was embarrassed and that made her smile a little. She just as soon dismissed the idea. Of course he wasn't; Observers didn't feel embarrassment. She didn't let his lack of interest dampen her mood. He could have done worse.

They were still to have their first night together and she couldn't help the jagged edge of anxiousness that embedded itself in her stomach at the thought. She just hoped it didn't screw her up for the rest of her life. She did what she did to survive, to get by to another day, but she wasn't ready for it to change who she was, to ruin her completely.

It was a great sadness too that Etta wasn't about. Kitty was sure she would have been able to give her at least one genuine smile to cross off her weekly Crazy Ways to Remain Semi Sane checklist: Smile when you are happy and make sure someone is watching who just plain won't get the moment (i.e. of the Observer persuasion). Etta wasn't without a sense of humor, even if she was a workaholic. She was a good person, all the same, of that Kitty was certain. Etta was one of the good guys, and her friend.

When she finished her song, she decided it was time to cross something off her own checklist and asked for a volunteer from the audience to help her with her next song, a duet ("sorry ladies, boys only").

Ole had obviously been playing coy, he'd been paying attention all right because just then he looked as if he'd been slapped. Oh crap, his associate was pulling some crazy Native shit! What could the instruction manual possibly have to say about that, under the heading of "In case of emergency"?

To her surprise, and horror, he stood up and began walking toward her. Maybe she needed to have a look at that manual herself, right now, actually! She clapped along with the other women, smiling on the outside, but on the inside she was running through her very short list of ass-kicking moves. Simon wouldn't be here to pull her ass out of trouble this time. It was all up to her now.

She offered Ole her hand when he got close enough and smiled kindly. "Much appreciated, sugar. You're a good sport."

.

When they came to repossess Ella, Rachel couldn't do a thing. She tried to fight, screamed at the top of her lungs until her throat hurt, but nobody came to help her. An Observer grabbed her hold of her and held her still. She couldn't match his strength, she could only watch as Ella was taken away from her, kicking and screaming.

For a long time, her neighbors remained indoors. They didn't come out of their apartments for anything. They were, she realized, afraid. Deathly afraid.

She didn't call Etta. She knew that had Etta been able to do anything, she would have. That if she'd been able, she would have been here to offer what little she could. She sat in a heap on the floor and cried, alone with her hopelessness and the deep and certain fear that her only family were now gone. What was she now, now that she was alone? In this world of daily terror, what could she possibly be? What could she bring to this world that was not more of the same, hopelessness and horror? And if she resigned herself to it, as she had long ago, what could come of it, but more of the same? What was the point anymore?

She was alone in this world now, totally un-alone and yet totally alone.

They would come for her, she was certain. She wasn't afraid; it was hard to be anything at all.

6.

Unexpectedly, Windmark's superior had called him in to a meeting. Still, the meeting was to be in some hours. He had time to prepare a report of Keystone's most recent successes and its overall progress. He got down to collating all the relevant data and making it fluid, cohesive, pointing towards a favorable end. The program had been progressing as they had hoped, that was all that his superior needed to know right now. Obviously, it was entirely possible he would have questions. If he did, Windmark would answer his questions honestly.

He kept reminding himself that this was a big thing. Despite knowing very well he was competent enough to lead the program, as competent as any of them, he knew it wouldn't be wise to come across as _too_ confident. His superior would not be pleased, would be prompted to question his "attitude". In the presence of his superior, he would refrain from acting as if _he_ was superior. The Natives would say it was only common sense.

The meeting was going smoothly and he had offered the majority of his report, was just wrapping up with expectancies and projections, when he once more began to wonder after the logic behind such a thing. He just didn't see it.

When he was finished, fully expecting some form of questions, his superior merely handed him a tablet containing his most recent orders in relations to the program. He was not going to look at it just yet, would do so when he was once more alone, when he caught the look his superior was fixing him with and something about it told him to look at the tablet he was holding in his hands. Doing so, he noted that his superior had chosen to end the agreement between Henrietta Bishop and himself.

Confusion was his first response, and then displeasure. What was it that the Natives called it? Disappointment? He glanced at his boss and asked him why.

"You do not respect her," his superior told him. "As this was a stipulation of your agreement, you have violated this agreement. Such a violation constitutes an end to the agreement."

"I don't understand." Windmark pushed down his anger. His superior did not know this woman, did not know of her capacity for evil. He didn't _get_ it. It wasn't just a "walk in the park". It was a struggle, a continual struggle. He also didn't seem to care.

"The outcome of your agreement is successful," his superior went on. "Your understanding, though desirable, is not a requirement. The failure is yours and this is unfortunate. As for the end of your agreement with the Bishop woman, you have demonstrated an inability of unacceptable levels. As you are unable to uphold proper conduct where she is concerned, we have chosen to end this association. The program is still yours; we have not taken that from you. That is all." He turned away, his mind already preoccupied with other plans, other programs and schemes.

Windmark didn't stick around any longer than was necessary. He didn't need to be told he was incapable of following a simple command. His thoughts were messy as he sorted through them, trying to piece the clues together despite the anger clouding everything up. Finally, it occurred to him that his superior was referring to Henrietta's admittance to hospital. It was not his fault that the woman was so weak, and she continually tried his patience to the limit and sent his temper spiraling out of control. It wasn't his fault, but his superior didn't care. Their agreement had stated that he respect the woman and that she, in turn, respected him, but his superior didn't care if the woman had upheld her end of the bargain or not. She was a Native, a lower creature. The expectation was that she would fuck up at least once. It didn't matter that she had pressed his buttons, it mattered that he had allowed them to be pressed, that he had reacted as any of her own kind might have, that he had sunk lower than expected. He was better than her yet he had not conducted himself better.

He supposed he had to be thankful that he hadn't been demoted. Very thankful.

He was still angry – his superior was a hypocrite and a fool – but he knew that this was the part where he sucked up his pride and just put up. If he did anything else, he would stand to lose everything. He would end up with nothing.

And that was unacceptable.

Not for the first time was he chagrined with the Natives lackadaisical attitude. This was, of course, precisely the reason their planet was struggling, precisely the reason they had opened themselves up to full-scale invasion. They did not follow protocol properly, or merely believed themselves needy of a protocol that was restricted to one or two aspects of their being and lives. They were dull of intellect, and he had allowed himself to slip, to act as they did.

It was little wonder his judgment had been called into question. He was a disgrace to his kind. It was true that his kind had not exactly equipped him for such a task as had been handed to him, but he was not some immature dullard. He was strong enough to figure these things out himself. He was no child and though he had never been a child and he was chagrined about that also, about the lack of guidance in certain matters, he might have reached out, might have broached his concerns. It was only his foolish pride that had kept him from doing so, his fear of seeming unworthy, weak.

Among his kind, such things were not considered "cute", but rather pathetic, disgusting. He had never thought of himself as either of these things and he had no wish to start doing so now.

He would be better, stronger from now on. He had to be.

The child, whatever would become of it, was no longer his concern. It was not like him, was just a lowly creature of some import in one respect and such little significance in others. To him, it was nothing anymore. He could not allow it to interfere with him again. Today was the day his association with both it and its mother ended. Today, it was no longer _his_.

.

He didn't visit Henrietta in the hospital. He had no need to. He had people who could just as easily do so; he saw to it that they did. He had better things to do with his time. He had a program to oversee, a program that would ensure the success of their entire kind. The importance of such a thing could not be lessened for any reason. He could not allow himself to be compromised again, could not allow the program to be compromised through him.

He would not be called a failure again; he would not be a failure.

.

Kitty gestured a hand, indicating the room she and Ole were standing in. "And this is the kitchen."

Ole tilted his head, observing and categorizing this and that.

Kitty cleared her throat. "Can I get you anything? A drink of something?"

"No," he replied.

She reached out and touched the tabletop, relieved to find that it was solid beneath her fingers. "Are you hungry?"

"No."

"No." She shook her head. She wasn't, either. She could hardly even think about eating. Her stomach felt weird. She'd been with guys before, had even been in love a couple of times, but this was… this wasn't like any of those times at all. This was something else. Something a little bit crazy, or possibly a lot bit.

Feeling like an idiot, she asked, "Do you want to come with me?" She didn't know what else to say. She couldn't be sweet or funny around him, it would all just sail right over his head. She felt like a robot, like a weak imitation of herself, and sort of light headed. She didn't like the feeling.

He didn't need to ask her where she was going, where they were going. He followed her out of the kitchenette and down the hallway to her room. She almost reached for the wall to support herself but something inside told her that wouldn't make a very good impression. She couldn't afford for him to think her sick and reject her. Her health was as good as it had ever been.

She wanted to ask him if there was some particular reason she had been chosen, or if he found her darker skin strange – all the Observers she had ever seen were white males – but she figured he wouldn't know anyway; that sort of info would all be on a need-to-know basis. Most of all, she wanted to ask him what he thought of _her_, if _she_ weirded him out. If they were going to get down and dirty together, she kind of hoped he wouldn't be hating on her the _entire_ time. It was probably just the fatalistic romantic in her, but it mattered to her.

Reaching her bedroom and wholly thankful that her roomie was out working, she took a seat on her bed and smiled. She came up with a random conversation that might help with the stress that was currently eating at her. "Did you have fun at the club?"

"Unsure."

His concise reply didn't help. It freaked her out a little, to be honest. "Well, I thought you were very brave," she told him truthfully. She'd also thought him the smallest bit cute. Of course she would, being the incurable romantic she was underneath. He'd practically thrown himself on the mercy of the crowd in choosing to accompany her in a song and she didn't think Observers generally regarded mercy as a _good_ thing. If she'd been him, she would have been scared out of her wits.

Of course, he had been fine. Perfectly fine. _Observers, right?_ she thought to herself.

"Ole. So that's a groovy name."

Perfectly seriously, he said, "Yes."

She burst out laughing. Whatever he thought she'd meant, she was sure he'd got it wrong. She bet he didn't even know what _groovy_ meant. Still, it was sweet of him to reply at all, to try his hand at a casual conversation. She had to respect him a little for that.

"You're a funny guy," she said, clapping a hand to his arm. She laughed again. Yeah, it was so funny! "I like funny guys." _True. Sadly true._ Simon had been funny, too. Funny guys tended to end up dead.

She got to her feet. "Do you dance, too, 'cause, you know, you could just be my dream guy?" She sighed dreamily and abruptly remembered she wasn't chatting with one of her girl friends. _Awkward moment._ "Gotta love them dream guys."

She grabbed his hand. "Let's dance. Come on, I'll show you how. It'll be fun." She grinned, as if letting him know it was cool, she wasn't up to anything, she could be trusted.

He didn't seem bothered.

First, they tried out a slow waltz. It didn't really embody the mood they were looking for, though it provided a lot of good moments for her clumsiness to shine through as she kept stepping on Ole's shoes. Shaking off the weirdness of that whole business, she attempted to teach him disco dancing. Horrifying, fantastic '70s disco dancing. She couldn't help laughing throughout the most of their lesson and that wasn't helping the mood any more than the ballroom dancing had.

Finally, she brushed a few strands of sweaty, messy hair from her face and sighed, resting her hands on her hips to catch her breath. "I think we should just try this thing and see what comes to us. What are your thoughts?"

He walked around her and unzipped the back of her dress.

"Or, you know, we could just… not talk," she said, with a little laugh in her voice that betrayed the fear she felt. "Thanks, Ole. I always have trouble with the zippers." She slipped her dress down, shimmying her hips a little to help out, and stepped out of it, laying it across the back of her chair.

When she turned back to Ole, there was an odd gleam in his eyes.

"We call them undergarments," she said, telling herself he just didn't get why, after she'd removed her dress, she was still wearing something. What was the purpose of that, hey? "Or, you know, some folks call them underwear or lingerie. I prefer _lingerie_." She smiled and added, "It's sexier."

Blank, completely blank.

"I'll lose it," she said, and proceeded to remove her bra and panties with as much dignity as she could manage. It was so damn embarrassing.

When she had finished, she straightened up, folding her arms over her naked breasts, and suddenly saw that he had followed suit and removed his own garments. Her eyes got wide and she backed up just a bit. "Argh!" She barely refrained from hissing, _Vampire!_ She didn't mean it, she was just a little freaked out. And damn, was the guy pale! She made a little joke with herself that they had chosen her because they were in desperate need of a little color. It was just funkier like that. Or maybe that was just her wits, walking on out the door?

"Uh, I… I don't mean that. Whatever you're thinking, believe me, it's not true. I'm cool with…" She shook her head and put her arms out, pulling him closer. "Let's lie down. I feel lightheaded. Like, weirdly."

They crossed to the bed, not a great distance, really, and she climbed up on the mattress, finding a good spot and laying back awkwardly, propped up on her elbows. She laughed, the lightheaded vibe really taking over now. She hoped she didn't puke on him. Playfully, she called out, "Get over here!"

He climbed onto the bed and settled himself on top of her, straddling her.

"This is kind of toasty, right?" she laughed, really amping up the weirdness factor.

She patted the end of his nose with a finger. "Okay, okay, here's a weird fact I bet you didn't know. People don't just have sex so babies can be born and the species can continue, some people just _like_ it. It's pleasurable. I would very much like it to be pleasurable, and please, argh, I really, really don't want no spooky tentacle creatures popping out of my chest afterward, okay? I wanna live. Like, yeah, a _lot_."

Ole didn't appear to have understood a word of what she'd just blurted and she waved her hand.

"Forget it. Proceed. Yeah, you're in the right place. I think you're gonna make it. But seriously, no tentacle creatures!" She begun to pull a face at that image, laughing because it was gross. She'd seen it in a movie once as a kid and it had freaked her out for the better part of a week. Then she'd fallen down the stairs because she was too scared to sleep and she'd fallen asleep in the middle of walking down the stairs. It was the first and only time she'd broken any of her own bones, and she wasn't keen on repeating the experience.

She was kind of purposefully distracting herself but she came back down to Earth pretty soon after when the real action began. It was kind of hard to ignore that kind of thing. She looked up into his face seeking reassurance but he didn't smile. He was really rocking the serious eyes tonight. She schooled her own features into an approximate match for his own – very cool, 007; _Blam! Blam!_ You're dead – but she couldn't keep it up. It felt weird and she kind of wanted to say so. She was just holding herself back from pushing him off her. This was important shit, clearly. _World peace important_, she told herself, because it was comforting.

When she was about ready to chuck up, she grabbed for his shoulders shakily and stilled him. "Stop. Stop. Ole, please stop. Let me… let me speak."

"You may speak," he said.

She thought it was weird he wasn't pissed, or even a bit peeved, but she wasn't about to point it out and risk really pissing him off. Patting his shoulder with a trembling hand, she attempted to explain. "You've gotta find a rhythm, yeah? Do you know what I mean by rhythm?"

"No."

She nodded, her vision sort of blurry with the crazy huge freaking out session going on inside her mind and body. She could do this. She could do this. She was Can-Do Kitty; she wasn't Give-Up Kitty. She could do this, she pepper talked herself in an endlessly repeating loop. Pause track, she scrambled for some way to explain her earlier assertion. She took a big breath and begun to hum. "That's a rhythm. Here's another one." She hummed another song. "Different, yeah, but similar, too?"

"Yes."

"Try… try to find a rhythm and just… go on… I'll meet you halfway, if I can. I promise, it'll feel loads better. Maybe even fun?"

He didn't catch her joke and begun again, from the top.

She moaned. It wasn't better. She summoned her inner strength and reached for something she could squeeze, gently manipulate, something she could get a hold of and use as leverage. She couldn't let it go on like this, it was actually starting to be painful and she so wasn't into it so neither was her body. She really needed it to be into it, for everything to go right.

She gritted her teeth to get through it and got down to the business of manipulating, using her own body as a tool and enticement for his to find a way that worked for both of them.

It seemed like an inordinately long time, with a lot of forceful manipulation on her part, before they found an acceptable rhythm. She was ridiculously tense because of the crazy effort and tired as crap. She didn't think it was going to work out this time and resignedly allowed herself to accept that fact. She only hoped she wouldn't have to explain _that_ to him. _Different words, same meaning. Semi-same meaning._

"Let me top. Ole, stop. Please. I think we should try this thing a different way. Do you think I might be able to try it on top for a while? You lay back and I'll… be on top? Can we try it?"

"Yes."

"Oh great. Love ya, Ole. I'm _so_ tired."

"It is not working," he said, allowing her to direct his movements.

"I know. I'm sorry."

He rolled over so she was on top and she pushed her hair back over her shoulder, infinitely glad that she'd tied it back into a ponytail. It wasn't very sexy but it made it slightly more manageable.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Okay, I'll start. Happy thoughts." She felt much better topping and it did feel better, too. She couldn't be sure he felt the same way but it had definitely done wonders for her. Tired as she was, she felt something was happening. Now, if she could just get Ole to follow her lead.

She knew she was making a face and that wasn't sexy – and her damned ponytail kept slipping back over her shoulder and smacking Ole in the face – but she needed to try, really try. It would have been so much easier if they'd decided on artificial insemination instead of the whole creepiness of whatever this was, some creepy fucking breeding program, but they hadn't, unfortunately.

"Come on, Ole, tell me you feel something!"

"I feel something."

She frowned, puffy voiced: "What kind of something? What does that mean? Oh Lord, Kitty! Shut up! Shut up! Not you, Ole, you're great." She winced, almost whimpering. Why couldn't it just work? Why couldn't she just… make it work somehow? She couldn't even catch her breath and she was so tired she just wanted to fall right to sleep. She wouldn't even bother with a shower, just go straight to sleep. If she wasn't careful, she might fall asleep anyway, and how awkward would that be?

"I thought _you_ were very brave, Kitty."

"Huh? What?"

Ole stilled her hand as she reached to toss her ponytail back over her shoulder. "Back at the club, you were brave."

"Aw!"

His expression became painful and he held tighter to her ponytail. It took Kitty a moment to catch on and she leant nearer, alleviating the strain on her ponytail. She stroked the side of his face gently. "Thank you so much, Ole," she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.

The deed done, she finally rolled off him and collapsed onto the mattress beside him, staring up at the ceiling with too big eyes. Panting to catch her breath, she let her tears slide down her face. She was relieved it was over, so relieved.

She let her eyes flutter shut and turned over so that she was facing Ole. "Sweet dreams, hun," she whispered, right before she drifted off.

7.

Anil was left to inform Olivia and Peter that Etta was doing a stint in hospital, taking some much needed time off work. That last part, he didn't say, though; he didn't want those two on his case, they were kind of intense. The scary type of intense.

He didn't know a whole lot but he told them what he _did_ know. Etta had ended up on the wrong end of an altercation with Windmark, apparently. He didn't know if they were onto her but he thought not. She was still breathing, so…

Knowing that she couldn't very well walk into the hospital and get her daughter back, Olivia withdrew into her thoughts. She lay down with Peter in his bed and fell asleep like that. Peter didn't sleep a whole lot. He was thinking about Etta and her tiny unborn baby, thinking about the plan and Walter; Walter, his dad, who was counting on him to remain strong, rational. He didn't feel very cool, but Olivia helped. Olivia always helped. They helped each other.

He finally found sleep as the sun was rising, the first, soft tendrils of sunlight lighting up Olivia's fair hair and warming her cheek, where he placed a gentle kiss. This wasn't the end. It wasn't anything like the end.

.

Etta was discharged from the hospital two weeks later. She was having a hard time coming to terms with the amount of time she'd spent in hospital, sleeping mostly, but she knew there was no undoing what had already been done. Well, not yet.

She didn't go home. She went straight to Rachel and Ella's. She didn't know how they would be, how they will have fared with her out of action, but she was praying they'd made it through largely unscathed.

She had to shoot the lock out of the front door to get the door open, holstering her weapon swiftly without a care. It was her bloody property, after all. Her shit, her rules. She finally located Rachel in Ella's room, sleeping. Ella was nowhere to be found and Etta deduced, with a horribly sinking heart, what that must mean. Rachel was skinnier, pale and weak-looking. Etta got out her communicator and called for an emergency medical transport. Rachel needed to be in the hospital.

She waited until Rachel was gone in the med transport, then she pulled the door roughly closed and headed for work. She needed to know what had happened with Ella, why she wasn't around anymore.

.

Windmark heard the crazy woman's screaming before he saw her. He hadn't heard that she was out of the hospital and seeing her again was a little like getting shot. Surprising, frightening, unfair. He wanted nothing to do with her. Unfortunately, she looked ready to kick the door down if need be.

She was being dragged out by the security staff when he arrived unhappily and a feral grin announced the gist of her intentions before she even started mopping the floor with his staff, loyalists and Observers alike.

Finally, Ole managed to restrain the fiercely struggling woman on the floor and glanced up at him with something close to concern. She was a little amped up, wasn't she?

"Leave her," he told Ole and his subordinate obeyed at once. Literally shaking with the force of her fury, Henrietta picked herself up off the floor and simply turned her evil eyes on him.

A shiver raced through Windmark at the sight of her in all her crazy glory. If she hadn't lost her mind, he wasn't sure who was saying that but they were crazier than her. She was insane, all right. "My office," he said, and then he turned and walked away, calm as anything.

If she wanted to see him so badly, she could just suck it up and do as he'd told her.

She didn't whip out her gun and go for him; she just did what he'd said. She followed him into his office and allowed him to lean past her and close the door.

He wasn't sure what was going on with him but something was. Things didn't feel right with him, as they invariably refused to do whenever Henrietta Bishop arrived to make his day just that bit more hellish. He couldn't decide if he was more angry, affronted and disgusted, or just plain turned on. Given his past history, it was probably all four.

Henrietta didn't waste any time making small talk. "Ella Blake. She's mine. Give her to me!"

He frowned. "Hmm? No."

Henrietta took her gun out and pressed it against the side of her head. "Now."

"Put the weapon down!" The growl in his voice actually frightened him. He didn't know where it had come from or why.

Henrietta didn't blink.

He took out his communicator and spent a couple of minutes speaking with someone on the other end of the line. In all that time, Henrietta's grip on her gun didn't once waver, her eyes frozen pools of hate.

He kept his gaze on hers. As tempted as he was to take a quick peek at the rest of her, he refrained. The woman's steely death stare was all the stimulus he needed for one day, no more.

When he was done, he put his communicator away and Henrietta lowered the gun from her temple, quickly and efficiently holstering it once more. She had it down to a fine art, he noticed. Then he noticed something else, too.

The slight swelling of her belly that could only be the baby.

He turned his back on her and strode past his desk, to the window that showcased the vast, glittering city below. He wanted Henrietta out of his office and gone from his life, as she should have been weeks ago.

He took his communicator out once more, intending on calling Ole. Henrietta's next words stopped him dead.

"What did we ever do to you?"

He spun to face her, the full measure of disgust and hatred he felt for her kind shining in his eyes. Then he took hold of her arm and threw her out of his office himself.

She stumbled from the force, ready to land on the floor in a painful heap, but Ole was there and helped her to steady herself. He didn't have to say a word. She left with him peacefully, the hard edge of her eyes now only worn.

.

Ella was so badly drugged when Etta arrived to take her home that she couldn't even stand on her own two feet. Ole, who'd gone with Etta to pick her cousin up, had to just about carry her from the facility. She didn't know who she was, much less who Etta might be, and what was worse was the fact that she didn't seem or was unable to care.

Sitting in the back of the car on the way to her apartment, Etta held Ella tightly in her arms, trying not to cry or to let Ella smack her head on the nearby side window. And when it was time to get out and walk to her apartment, Ole stuck around to help out with that task, also. Etta just wanted him gone. He was Windmark's henchman and she had trouble even looking at him without wanting to be ill, so strong was the sickening urge to kill him.

Several days later, Ella was still well and truly out of it. Etta had got in contact with her parents to let them know she was alive and (mostly) well. The baby was holding up, too. She promised to see them soon and called the hospital to check on Rachel's condition, and, soon after, Nina Sharp. She told Nina the same thing she'd told her parents, that she was fine, and asked if they could meet. She needed to quiz her about some stuff. Girl stuff, mostly, though some of it could well be about the existence of aliens on planet Earth, hiding in plain sight. Nina didn't laugh, though Etta did, and they arranged to meet that afternoon. In fact, she wanted to know all there was to know about the shit they'd been doing to Ella, and the drugs they'd been dosing her with. Needed to know.

It was a cold, overcast day and had been for most of the week. Donald had spent the majority of that time indoors, contemplating his many thoughts and the likelihood of some sunshine later in the week.

A knock on the door drew his attention and he frowned, listening cautiously for a long moment. Finally, he went to open the door. A young woman with blonde hair and very blue eyes peered back at him from the other side of the door. "Donald?" she asked.

"Yes, I am Donald O'Connor." He didn't know that he liked the fact that she knew who he was, but something about her was familiar, even now, almost as if he had known her once.

She nodded. "I'll be back." And just like that, she'd turned about and was walking away from him.

He closed the door and waited for her return. He should have asked her name, he supposed. She could honestly be anyone.

At the sound of knocking, he opened the door once more. The young woman was back and she'd brought someone with her. Ella. She looked different, though. Her hair was now all but a mere suggestion of what it had once been, as if it had been shaved off, and her skin unhealthy in appearance, ashen.

He forgot about the woman whose name he didn't yet know. All he could see just then was Ella. "Hello, Ella," he whispered. "It's Donald."

Ella didn't seem to hear him. She was rocking strangely, the other woman's arms wrapped firmly around her yet gentle, as if loving.

He returned his gaze to the woman he didn't know. "And what is your name, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Etta," she answered plainly. "Ella needs someplace to stay awhile. You think you could help her out?"

"Of course."

Etta didn't need to hear anymore. Promptly, without being asked to, she barged into his apartment, bringing Ella with her. She looked around briefly as she walked, cataloguing everything in the blink of an eye, and headed for the sofa, speaking to Ella softly, too quietly for him to hear, and then the pair sat down, Etta putting her boots up on his coffee table in a very unladylike fashion and with a remarkable lack of respect.

"So," she began. "Dougal."

"Donald."

"Yeah, whatever," she replied, proceeding to outline how Ella had been taken away and then, just a few days ago, returned. She told him what she'd learned about Ella's condition and some of the tests she'd undergone, the crap they had been shoving down her throat and pumping into her veins. She just kept on talking, Ella's head rested against her shoulder and an arm slung about her back, keeping her close.

"I will take good care of her," he said, to Etta, who was currently emptying the entire contents of her handbag out on his coffee table, rummaging through the pile until she'd found what she was looking for. She pushed some boxes toward him, packets of pills, and begun scribbling on the back of an old docket, instructions for Ella's meds, the times and dosages, whether to take them with food or without.

Before he could ask, she said, "We're cousins. Mom's side. She's my asset; my property. Mine to do with as I will. I want you to take damn fine care of her, and if I hear about any nutty shit, Dimitri, there will be bad crap landing in your lap, mmm? I'll pay you, of course. Say something."

He turned his palms up; what was he going to say?

Etta pressed a kiss to the side of her cousin's head. "All right, Ells. I have to go now but I won't be a stranger. I'll visit soon, okay? I'll bring Mom, too. Love you."

She shot Donald one last look and swept out, leaving Ella sitting on the couch mutely.

Glancing around his apartment as if for inspiration, Donald slowly moved around the coffee table and sat down on the couch with Ella. She shifted closer and rested her head on his shoulder, saying absolutely nothing. He put an arm around her back and rubbed her arm consolingly. He didn't know what to say, either. Sometimes, words weren't necessary.


	2. Chapter 2

_Let's leave it alone, we can work it out, find our way, forget the past, because I love you and you love me_

– from "Shoulder to Shoulder", performed by Rebecca Ferguson

* * *

_Three Months Later_

Unn and Tokey were dressed in their best, brightest clothes, all ready to visit their mother in hospital. Following breakfast, Unn had been carefully schooling Tokey on the song they were going to sing for their mom, a number titled "If A Song Could Get Me You" by a woman named Marit Larsen, a song Unn absolutely adored. She had, also, apparently told Tokey that Mommy was in Hope's Sit-All because she was pregnant, which meant they would have a little brother very soon, and now Tokey was watching him with softly expectant eyes, just waiting for him to confirm this news. The little girl was already dreaming up names: she particularly liked Odie and Odo, but then again, she liked Bandicoot and Baby, too. It was a tricky business, naming a new baby. Unn smartly offered up a suggestion of her own; Hugo Walter.

Tokey frowned, thinking this through, and then, just as soon, she was smiling once more. She ran to the coffee table and returned with a piece of paper on which she'd drawn a big, bright yellow flower. Accompanying the drawing were the words _You are important to us._ She handed the drawing to her father and watched him put it away in his briefcase, satisfied that he hadn't merely folded it and stowed it in a pocket. Then she slipped her hand into his and headed for the door, dragging both her father and her older sister with her with an air of determined stoicism.

In the car on the way to the hospital, Tokey turned to her sister with wide eyes. "What do you think of Baby Bandicoot?"

Unn frowned, turning to her dad. "What _is_ a bandicoot, Daddy? Let's just clear up this mystery once and for all, shall we?"

"I'm not quite sure, child."

Unn rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, "Shameless, Daddy!"

From the front, Phillip's dad offered up a suggestion, "A bandicoot can refer to a number of small, rat-like marsupial creatures, originally inhabitants of the continent of Australia or the island region known as New Guinea."

Unn snapped her fingers, sighing appreciatively. "Finally! Thank you, Ole. Now, what exactly do you mean by _marsupial_?"

Tokey shared a long-suffering glance with her father. She loved her big sister to the moon and back but her single-minded perseverance was what was known as an acquired taste, by turns tiring and embarrassing. It was also what made her sister her sister.

She turned to catch her sister's gaze and chirped, "Let's practice the song again!"

Of course, Unn couldn't say _no_ to that. They needed to have the song down pat so their mother would be proud of them, would smile rather than finding a cupboard to hide herself in.

Unlike her younger sister, Unn had a serious positive reinforcement habit. She was happiest in the company of others, and especially when they made her feel good about herself. Tokey didn't need that kind of attention; she innately understood that she was loved, just by being alive, that she was valuable. She wasn't in the habit of questioning such truths.

When Ole begun to sing along with the girls, Windmark decided that this would be one to tell Etta later. She would find it very amusing; it would make her very happy. On top of which, it would demonstrate their daughters' consummate grasp of manipulation, something which he was very proud of. Though, perhaps he wouldn't mention this to Etta; he didn't want to end up on the end of one of her Native rants, in which she begun to imagine all manner of unpleasant experiences involving such an ability and begun to fear that they would somehow come true. He would call it _paranoia_ but he knew very well what she would call it: caring, a healthy level of caution, being a good parent. Always be prepared to expect anything, good or bad. She liked to say one could not anticipate everything, or be there all the time, but he knew that wasn't true. She was a Native, he wasn't, and as long as their children required that he be there to "care" for them, he would be there.

At least, this was what he told himself. He refrained from pointing out to himself that he hadn't been there for Etta; that when she had needed him, he had been elsewhere.

Turning his mind to other thoughts, he begun to hum along with the song the children and Ole were singing.

Unn's expression turned openly horrified and she waved her hands frantically. "Daddy, you're killing it!"

He glanced at Tokey for a second opinion and she leaned closer to pat his hand, nodding sadly.

"Sing it again. Start from the beginning. If Ole can master it, I am confident that I also will be able to."

Unn's round blue eyes took on an edge of fright but Tokey clapped excitedly. "From the beginning, Unn! Daddy wants to sing with us!"

"'Want' is rather a strong word, child," Windmark admitted, somewhat apprehensively. What had he gotten himself into now?

Unn's wide eyes disappeared and she grinned suddenly. "From the top, people!" she declared.

Windmark heard a soft chuckle from the front and knew that he'd made something of a mistake. Even Ole didn't think he'd be able to pull this off, and Ole had the disturbing propensity of knowing such things before he really knew them.

_You can do this_, he told himself silently. _Rise to the challenge; prove to your offspring that you are as good as you say, that you will not abandon them when they need you most._

Yes, he thought that he could do that. If he could master this song business, perhaps even Etta would finally believe what he'd been saying all along. He was just _that_ good.

When Etta, laid up in her hospital bed, heard the three of them singing she started crying. Windmark was slightly alarmed, but the kids were still smiling, so he figured this was good. Somehow. Or else, they were yet to learn any different, being that they were children and in need of constructive guidance.

Etta moved to the edge of the bed and reached for Unn and Tokey, hugging them tightly, lovingly. Then she looked at him and smiled, her eyes just as loving when she looked into his eyes. She reached for his hand and squeezed it.

"I'm sorry," he mouthed, but she shook her head. If she merely thought he was apologizing for his awful singing, or for something more, such as her being in hospital in the first place, he wasn't sure.

He squeezed her hand back, suddenly overtaken with real fear. He wanted more than anything at that moment to tell her he loved her, as any other person might, as a Native might have, but he couldn't do it. Somehow, he couldn't.

He slipped his hand from hers, touched Tokey's hair for a moment, seeking the comfort of his children, of knowing that though he might not speak the words, they understood that he loved them. They didn't need the words; there were whole universes where words had never even been invented and love was still as real and vibrant as it ever would be, very much alive. Seeking the comfort of knowing that he loved them in return and that was the truth and not merely some comfortable, conformist notion he'd dreamed up one day.

He busied himself with retrieving Tokey's picture from his briefcase while the children climbed up onto the bed with their mother, chatting and laughing happily.

.

Etta was screaming, on the verge of hysteria. The people were taking her baby away and there was nothing she could do about it, nothing at all. There was just too many of them, and she was only one person. One very human, Native person. He wasn't there; Tokey wasn't there.

She never would be. Unn would never know her little sister because she would never be born.

.

Windmark woke with a splitting headache and a furiously pounding heart. The more he tried to recall what it was he'd been dreaming about, the faster the dream slipped from his grasp. One moment Etta was laughing, happy, the next she was screaming and distraught.

Etta again.

He got out of bed, heading to the kitchen for something to drink. The woman was a plague; she could not just leave him in peace. It was… upsetting, he thought. Yes, that would be the Native word.

He touched his head and wished he hadn't. For whatever reason, it hurt. And they said the tech suppressed such primitive mechanisms. Well, they didn't know everything, despite what they said. They hadn't known what an inconvenience Henrietta Bishop would turn out to be, had they? Or was the appropriate term "pain"?

Yes, that woman was a pain all right. And he was thinking about her again! Clearly, his technique was lacking. It definitely needed more work.

.

The supermarket made him very uncomfortable. He was sure he wouldn't just be able to take a couple of pills, as if he was some common Native, but anything was worth a try. The pain in his head wasn't letting up and he wasn't accustomed to physical pain such as this. The light hurt his head all the more, and every little sound was piercing. He was sure it would pass any moment, just as he was considering the wretched Native drugs; which ones were the right ones, anyhow?

He spent a long time finding the right product and comparing brands and formulations. Finally, he found a suitable product and headed for the register. On his way there, he happened to pass through an aisle that stocked soap and the likes and he paused, recalling Etta's words of many weeks ago.

He stopped to inspect the soap and soap-like products, worried by the various choices. He could never really figure out the difference, something to do with the "mood" or "signature" or some such; scent, color, texture. There were too many variables for him to be able to guess which Etta might approve of.

Setting his mind to the task, he didn't realize his head had stopped hurting until he was finally at the register, no less certain of his choice in soap as he had been when he'd chosen one of the products. He didn't exactly know why, what the point was, but if Etta happened to turn up on his doorstep with the intention of killing him, she might notice that he had gone out and bought some soap.

She might even take mercy on him, believing him capable of "change". Seizing on this thought, Windmark decided that his trip was not, then, an entirely wasted venture. He was merely being "smart", employing the use of his "wits". Soon, he would have these Natives all figured out.

Mystery solved.

Or perhaps he would "hit the nail on the head" and drop by Etta's for a visit. He could present the soap to her as proof that he would not be fooled by her, no matter what evil means she employed. He "understood" her methods, and he was smarter than her. She could not win.

The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him.

Perhaps she would even laugh, would show him that she wasn't about to give up just because he told her there was no point in resisting, in continuing her grudge against him. Perhaps she would tell him she believed in her own capabilities, that he was wrong about her kind, they were not "weak", and she would not merely bow down. No amount of proof would be proof enough.

No, he thought, then, he would not do that. She did not know he knew of her involvement with the resistance and he was not authorized to be giving away the "game", as it were. It may turn out to be a tactical disadvantage later on, and he didn't want to be known as too smart for his own good, believing himself infallible. Frankly, he _knew_ he was infallible, but he also knew shit happened. According to the Natives, bad luck struck the best of them, and though he didn't believe in bad luck, or any other sort of luck, his own kind had their own ideas of such things: you don't even know what you don't know.

Etta wiped the back of her hand across her brow, smearing dirt across her forehead, her hand trembling as she did so though she was too preoccupied to notice. The man she'd been engaged in arresting was now being detained by her colleagues and she was due a much needed rest. She couldn't help from smiling with relief. They'd finally got the psycho and that was what mattered most.

Arriving back at work, she got a dressing down from Phillip. She was pregnant and should have been taking it easy. She merely made a face, offered up the bare facts. The child the perpetrator had abducted, along with two of her fellow Agents, would have been dead if not for her "reckless behavior". She was fine; she was taking it easy now, wasn't she?

Her little bout of attitude wasn't appreciated by Phillip because he ordered her off field and onto desk duty for the next two weeks in reprimand and she left his office grumbling to herself, gladly flopping down into her chair. She was very tired now that things had settled down and she suddenly noticed that her hands were shaking.

She told herself she'd deal with it later. It wasn't that bad. For now, she needed to get her report written up. After that, she'd see about cleaning up and all the rest of it.

.

Waiting as the elevator took her down to the parking garage, Etta rested her forehead against the cool metal. Amped up on their recent success with the case, she'd overdone it. Usually, she was quite good at checking herself, but not so much tonight. Perhaps it was nostalgia for the old times clouding her judgment, or just Broyles's dressing down, which had effectively made her feel like crap and she'd just had to prove him wrong – that she _could_ handle it – and had actually only ended up proving him right – yet again! A strong suspicion was telling her it was the latter, but it could well have been a combination of the both.

She quickly hustled her thoughts away from work again, and the word _combination_, which made her suddenly aware of her deep hunger. She hadn't eaten since breakfast and she couldn't even remember why, exactly – the case, probably, and being so amped up about it. A running theme with her, it seemed. She would have to make a note and stick it to her fridge so she would read it frequently and it would hopefully sink in, then.

_Etta + Amped Up = (Pointlessly) Pooped_

It would be very scientific, she thought. Walter would like it, she was sure, even if Peter didn't and Olivia was left to wonder after her daughter's sanity, along with the baby.

Stepping back from the wall somewhat, she opened her eyes and peered at the keypad. "Are we there yet?" she asked it tiredly, which was when she noticed someone was looking at her and, right, how embarrassing was that? Not funny, just embarrassing.

So yeah, she was Peter's daughter and he had a special affinity with gadgets and the like, but sheez, the whole _world_ didn't need to know it.

Then she noticed that it was Ole.

"Hey," she slurred, suddenly very dizzy, "I think I know you."

"I think you do," he replied, just before she passed out.

.

Windmark didn't look pleased when Ole appeared with an unconscious Etta. He sent him to chase up some intell and he returned with the devil woman herself. "Put her down," he told Ole, at last.

Ole gently lowered Etta to the ground. When he'd straightened up once more, he promptly began speaking. "We were talking and she just fell asleep." He seemed confused, though he didn't say so. He handed Windmark the briefcase in his hands, and his superior quickly dismissed him.

Ole remained exactly where he was. He didn't begin walking away until Windmark said, "The woman will be fine." Then he only walked a short distance and stopped, glancing back to find Etta right where he'd left her.

Taking the hint, Windmark crouched down to pat Etta's face mechanically. She didn't stir; Ole didn't seem bothered by this fact and resumed walking away. If his boss was on the case, he trusted that all would be fine.

Shooting the troublesome Etta a dark glance, Windmark refrained from a sigh. What was he going to do with the woman now? He didn't want to know her, let alone "hang out" with her, even if she was unconscious, and she suddenly looked heavy. Not to mention messy. He was sure that was dirt on her face, and her clothes. She looked as if she'd been indulging in her favorite pastime, kicking ass as only she could do.

He wiped a bit of the dirt off her face with the edge of his sleeve and scooped her up into his arms, easily lifting her off the ground and carrying her to his car. She'd really outdone herself in the ass-kicking department because she didn't so much as twitch.

Setting her down on the backseat, he made sure to check she was still breathing. She was. He noticed that she had buttoned her coat wrongly, some of the buttons were in the wrong places. Further proof that she wasn't as good as she liked to make out; she was no Observer, for sure. He undid the buttons and began again, replacing them in the right places. As a member of law enforcement, she was required to look her best at all times. Even when unconscious.

He was busy buttoning her coat when he came to her baby bump and paused, feeling odd all of a sudden. In the short few months they hadn't really seen each other, the baby seemed to have grown a great deal. He begun to wonder what that meant; if it was more like he was, or more like its mother, or if it was one of those 50/50 deals. Placing a hand on Etta's tummy cautiously, he waited. The baby didn't move. It was obviously more like its mother; she had probably poisoned it against him with all of her Native food, and her Native ways. Damned soap!

Just then, Etta blinked open groggy eyes. She waved her arms about ridiculously. "Wha-? Get outta town! Is this some lame assed abduction attempt? Where's Ole?" Suddenly wide awake, she sat up sharply and glared at him. "Why are you fuckin' touching me?"

"You are incapable of dressing yourself, Henrietta Bishop." He feigned a Native inclination to his words, with some difficulty. Who spoke like this, anyway? "Who would have thought?"

She snorted. "Where's Ole?"

"I sent him… home." He abruptly noticed how her hands, covering her belly possessively or protectively, were shaking. "I should send _you_ home."

She broke into laughter, her eyes uncharacteristically watery. "I can send myself home very well on my own, thank you!" Her blue eyes with their wide, dark pupils glimmering wetly told him she wasn't really thanking him; it was figure of speech, accidental attitude. Or, more likely, very purposeful attitude.

She leaned forward, getting ready to shove him out of the way and make her escape. She didn't seem to care if she was pale or shaky; she just wanted to be away from him!

A remarkably similar sentiment to the way he felt, he thought. Then he did a stupid thing. He placed a hand over hers, over her belly.

He told himself it was her apparently lack of caring that would, was she not careful, irreparably damage the offspring, but his hand appeared quite content covering her smaller, paler, clammy hand and the offspring hidden inside her.

He looked at her quickly, thinking that she was surely going to kick his ass now, but when he looked she just looked tired. She wasn't glaring.

She flopped forward some and leant her head against his. "Hey, crazy man," she whispered, and something in his chest felt warmer at the softness of her tone. "What do you think, boy or girl?"

He removed his hand from hers; stood up and stepped out of her way. She merely gazed at him. "There is a place not far from here that serves Native food," he told her.

She laughed softly, a strange sparkle entering into her eyes, making them appear much warmer than before, watery as they still were. Something about her just seemed so soft and warm, he didn't know how it had happened so fast and he was in half a mind to leave. Forget his car, just go.

She climbed out of the car, holding onto the side of the car for support and reaching to close the door behind her. She turned to face him once more, her voice as pleasantly mellow as her laugh had been: "Are you asking me out on a date?"

She might have been speaking an alien language for all he understood of her words. He couldn't seem to put meanings to words; he had the overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms, just to see if she was as soft and warm as she looked, to maybe hold her for a while.

Looking wearier than before, she began to hum some tune that was knocking around in her head, closing her eyes as if to aid her recall of the song. When she began to sing he had to physically step back.

He found himself staring at her mouth, at her lips, involuntarily recalling the way it had felt when he'd traced his thumb over her bottom lip, when she had kissed him. Soft, warm, pleasant. More than pleasant.

He wanted to kiss her, he realized. He was acting glitchy again. He'd thought he'd overcome the primitive urges Henrietta Bishop evoked in him, but he'd only been fooling himself. He didn't even know what he didn't know.

He stepped forward abruptly. He was going to fix this once and for all! She was lost in the song she was singing and had yet to open her eyes. He lifted her chin and dipped his face to hers, then he kissed her.

It felt so good he couldn't keep his arms from encircling her soft, sleek frame and drawing her nearer, pressing her body to his and his to hers, the feel of her wildly beating heart against his chest an unfamiliar thrill.

She lifted a hand but she didn't push him away. Instead, she placed her hand on his face and returned his kiss.

.

Sitting across from one another in the much warmer restaurant, he found himself remarkably content to merely watch her watching him. She had taken her coat off and hung it over the back of her chair. She seemed smaller without it, but no less strong. She was smiling as she watched him and he couldn't figure that out. Was she happy because she'd finally gotten one over him; because she still had the same old power over him, just as if they'd never been away from each other? And why did he feel so certain that what was happening to him was… okay? How could it be okay?

A waitress returned with their food and Etta thanked the woman though she had only brought the food because it was her job. Etta didn't seem to mind; she liked thanking the woman and the woman liked being thanked.

Biting her lip, Etta leaned closer and peered at his meal. "The best of both worlds, huh? Chewy _and_ spicy. Nice." She looked down at her own meal. "Mmm, not so chewy and spicy!" She laughed gently. "You better eat that before I do," she told him seriously, and he frowned.

She made a frowney face, imitating him. "Grr! Uh-ah, lady, you ain't touchin' mah food." She laughed breathily, swiping a hand past her hair and flicking some of it away dismissively. "You'd faint, you big girly girl!" Strangely, she pointed her finger up at the ceiling and blew on the end of it.

She laughed again. He pushed his plate toward her uncertainly – maybe the baby wanted to eat something _real_, for a change – and she promptly stopped laughing, patting his hand.

"Sorry, I really am joking." She took her hand off his and reached for her glass, taking a sip of water. She set her glass down and met his eyes. "Thank you. For… for not just leaving me there and walking away like, 'Pff, who cares?'"

"It was Ole," he replied, and felt oddly empty. Yes, Ole; not him.

She shook her head. "I won't keep you from your dinner. It's cool. Thanks, Ole. And thanks, you, for the meal." She looked down at her own plate, her earlier interest missing, and started on her food.

He looked at his meal, feeling strangely disinterested also. Uncharacteristically, he didn't first think to blame her.

.

They returned to the parking garage on foot, the city gloomy around them at night, and he noticed that Henrietta was as gloomy as the inky night. They walked side by side, without speaking, and he listened to the sound of her boots on the pavement.

She stopped at her car and he saw, in the jarring, artificial light, how dreary her complexion truly was. She was nothing like she'd been; she was tired, resigned. Earlier, he had thought her strong, but she wasn't strong anymore.

He wondered if it was him, if he had done that to her, sapped something vital from her constitution. Somehow, it seemed wrong. Unfair. They had not had a fight, but she looked so worn out and tired they might as well have done so.

He put a hand out, stopping her from pulling her car door open. It didn't seem smart to allow her to drive herself home in her condition. He didn't want her to come to harm lest the baby be harmed, also.

He frowned. Well, no, he corrected himself; he didn't want to see the baby compromised, that was true, but he was also worried about Henrietta. As herself, not as the mother of his unborn child.

Before he could stop them, the words had slipped out of his mouth. "Come home with me tonight, Etta." He wasn't sorry.

Henrietta seemed to stare a long while at nothing really, her eyes unfocused, and then she reached for his hand, slipping her hand into his.

They walked to his car together, hand in hand. "Would you like to listen to a song?" he asked, as they were driving.

"No. I'm rather tired. But if you would like to…"

He glanced across at her briefly, noticing the way she was slumped in her seat, ready to fall off to sleep. Soon, she had done just that.

Arriving home, he pulled her into his arms and carried her into the apartment complex, waiting patiently for the elevator to arrive. Then he carried her to his apartment. He lay her down on his bed and found a clean blanket to cover her with. She was sleeping soundly, only scowling very occasionally, as if pained. He lay down beside her, placing a hand over her belly and was surprised to feel the baby kick and the sudden tightness in his chest and throat.

He drew Etta into his arms and allowed his eyes to fall shut, listening to the rhythmic sound of her soft, steady breathing, comforted by her warm presence and the pleasant scent of her skin and different but similarly pleasant smell of her hair.

As he finally drifted off into sleep he was thankful he hadn't left her in the parking garage, all alone. His last conscious thought was of Etta's earlier question, when she had asked him if he thought the baby would be a boy or a girl when it was born. _A girl_, he thought distantly. _It's a girl. You don't even know what you don't know but I think, somehow, I know._


	3. Chapter 3

9.

_Six Years Later_

The sky was clear and bright the day Ole arrived at Etta's apartment with some important news for his superior, Windmark, and the woman he considered a friend, Henrietta Bishop. Their superior had been murdered, overthrown, and now all the "special children" the project had yielded, the children that were to be the future of both their kinds, were being systematically eradicated.

His own child, Phillip, had been relocated to a place he had to assume was safe. Now, he'd come for Unn and Tokey. Thinking about it, he supposed that Tokey would be safe; she was not a child of Keystone and so the Observers would assume she was not one of their own, was not Windmark's, but this did not console Ole. Etta would not allow either of her children to come to harm, she would fight to the death to protect them. To make matters worse, the communicators were non-functioning. There was no way to contact either Windmark or Etta.

When Ole arrived, the sight that greeted him was not a comforting one. Etta and Tokey were dead, a handful of Observers along with them, and Windmark was merely sitting on the floor beside his deceased family, Unn held tightly to him as if he feared letting her go, the two of them silent and unmoving, as if frozen. Unn wasn't even crying; she seemed stunned, stuck in some strange form of detached shock.

Ole immediately noticed the lack of wounds on Tokey's body, as if her little neck had merely been broken. Etta had been shot pointblank in the front of the head. Her eyes were wide and staring, full of horror.

Abruptly, Unn tilted her head to one side, somewhat jarringly, and said, as if in some surprise but not unhappy, "Ole?" A smile appeared on her face, her eyes bright, happy. They were Etta's eyes.

"I must take the child," he said to Windmark, who was now pointing a gun at him. His hand wasn't trembling in the slightest.

"Please," Ole said. "The children are important."

Windmark released Unn from his arms. She smiled at Ole. Then, kneeling down by her mother, she closed her eyes.

Ole had the indescribable urge to pull her away, to console her in some way, though she was smiling still.

Unn hugged her mother. "I love you, Mommy," the little girl whispered. "I won't forget you. I won't forget how much you loved Tokey and I."

Then, she turned to her baby sister. At that, Windmark gained his feet and picked the child up, carrying her, kicking and screaming, over to Ole. She didn't want to go yet, she needed to say goodbye to Tokey still.

Ole took the screaming child into his arms. "Phillip is waiting for you," he told her. "He is worried about you and misses you. He would very much like to see you. Please. Please…"

Shivering uncontrollably, the little girl looked up into his face, into his eyes and right into his soul. "They will pay for this!" she hissed, and her voice was a deadly blade, uncompromising.

"Yes," he agreed.

To her father, Unn said, "This is not the end," and the surety of her tone was reassuring rather than disturbing.

A moment before they departed, leaving Windmark alone with the fallen bodies of Etta and Tokey, Unn whispered, "Love you, Daddy." Ole wasn't even sure if Windmark had heard her.

Then they were gone.

.

The man who had ordered the children's deaths was indeed taken care of. His successor then ordered the timeline reset. Once more, Henrietta was to die before her parents. Before she departed the world, Etta, who had always been so good at blocking his attempts to read her, shared one of her own memories with Windmark. She was a little girl standing in a park filled with bright light, warm air and greenery all around. She was also happy; her parents nearby. She was holding a plant of some form, blowing on it so the little pieces caught the breeze and took flight themselves, to continue the fate of their species. She was feeling hopeful. What she was really saying was that she knew; somehow, she _knew_. And there would always be hope, if only you continued to look, to believe. If hope became real and took wing, they could win this thing. They would live in on their children, this would not be the end, but rather a beginning. A beginning filled with love and hope.

It was Etta's strength in the face of her own death that gave Windmark strength. Yes, he saw it now. Even as she left this world for another, he saw her again, smiling in that park. He saw their children, laughing. They could no longer save Tokey but Unn was another matter; Unn could still live a long, fulfilling life. She had done nothing wrong, had committed no crimes. She deserved no less.

Silently, he whispered that he would fight for their daughter, for a future filled with hope. What was left for him now? His own kind had taken everything from him that had even mattered; his family. Without the people he loved, he was nothing more than a glorified machine. A living being that had no notion of "living"; a thing that could commit and perpetuate wrongdoing with no feeling of wrongness, no moral compass.

He did not want to be that wrong thing any longer. He did not want Etta to did; she did, anyway. The only way to get through it was to tell himself that in the end, she would return. In the end, their child would be happy, loved. In the end, he would avenge Etta, for all the wrongdoing that had been brought upon her person. He would avenge Tokey, for his failure to protect her.

And in the end, Olivia Dunham provided him the perfect opportunity. She, too, understood the notion of avenging a loved one, understood that _something_ had to happen for closure, for a state that allowed for healing if not forgiveness to be reached.

Then he died. Soon, he would cease to exist. He didn't know where he would go then, what would happen to him, if he would continue in some other form, on some other plane of existence, or if he would merely disappear, dissipate, he only knew that he was happy.

The plan had succeeded, if not perfectly, functionally, and he was abruptly faced with Etta, smiling warmly at him, and there in her arms was Tokey.

He didn't have to tell Etta the plan had worked; somehow, she already knew. She was smiling for him, for all the love that still flowed between them and through them. That had come of them.

He smiled. Whispered finally, "I love you."

* * *

_Epilogue_

_2016_

Nina smiled as she handed Etta her birthday present, wrapped in a bright, jubilant gift wrap Nina had picked out herself. The little girl's clear blue eyes were wide and happy. She hugged Nina quickly and turned to her mother, Olivia, who was assisting with opening her presents. She had quite a few by now. Olivia grinned and laughed, brushing a hand across her brow, her expression seeming to say, "Woo, opening presents is surprisingly hard work, huh?!" Etta broke into delighted laughter and hurried to her mother's side to help.

Nina, humming along to the music playing, went to see how the rest of partygoers were coping. Peter, Phillip, Brandon and Astrid were attempting to figure out the new cotton candy machine. When Nina arrived, everyone but Brandon glanced at her as if asking for her help. She palmed the manual from the table and begun reading. Less than five minutes later, she was ready to explain.

Astrid poured them all lemonades, stopping by the presents to drink her own glass; Brandon was still frowning, peering down at the manual along with Peter, the two of them discussing the topic with genuine interest; Phillip clapped a hand to Nina's arm thankfully.

The ringing of the doorbell announced that Rachel had arrived with her husband and their kids, Ella and Eddie.

Etta squealed and scrambled over her presents, dashing for the door. As soon as Olivia opened the door, she grabbed hold of Ella's and Eddie's hands and took them to see her cotton candy machine.

Astrid offered Rachel and Eric a glass of lemonade, just chilling out to the music; Walter's favorite.

Rachel sipped her lemonade peacefully, then her eyes landed on the cotton candy maker and she sighed, "Oh, Livvy!"

Olivia stifled her laugh with a hand, her eyes sparkling happily. She pulled Peter close, an arm wrapped around his shoulders, and rested her head on his shoulder. "We just couldn't resist."

Peter explained, "Etta's stuck in a cotton candy phase. She can't get enough of the stuff. Liv's hoping this'll help her get over it."

Olivia nodded knowingly. Clearly, she wasn't just hoping; she just knew this stuff.

"Well, good luck," Rachel replied. She wasn't so sure about her older sister's logic, but hey, anything was possible, right?

Etta returned, bright red cotton candy in hand, and Rachel refrained from a wince. "Would you like some cotton candy, Aunt Rachel?"

"No, thank you, sweetheart." She held up her glass of lemonade. "I'm still working my way through this sugar hit." She handed the gift bag she was holding in her other hand to Olivia, Etta's eyes following the bag the whole time.

Olivia took an item of clothing out of the bag and held it up for Etta's inspection. It was a knitted sweater with a pretty penguin motif.

Etta grinned and threw her arms around her aunt in a squishy hug, some of Rachel's lemonade sloshing onto the floor in the process. "Thanks, Aunt Rachel! It's beautiful!"

Rachel patted the little girl's hair somewhat awkwardly. Ella and Eddie were talking about school. Eddie wanted cotton candy but it didn't need to be red (curious if it was as good as the kind you bought); Ella wasn't interested (didn't want the zits!). Eric was talking on his cell phone.

Nina had closed her eyes and was singing along with a song that was playing. Peter was frowning over a PlayStation console, along with Olivia's boss. Astrid, over by the cotton candy maker with some guy Rachel had never met before, was grinning and shaking her head.

Peter and Phillip glanced towards Etta, who had just stepped away from her aunt. The PlayStation was a gift from Eric.

Etta folded her new sweater neatly and left to set it down on the end of her bed, in her bedroom. When she returned, Olivia and Nina were negotiating the candles on the birthday cake, Astrid and Rachel watching on; Ella with her arms crossed, expecting an incident of some form, and probably very embarrassing, too.

Peter and Eric were setting up the PlayStation; Eddie kept interrupting to give them instructions which they frowned over before going back to the manual, Brandon grinning the whole while.

Etta smiled.

"Happy birthday, Henrietta," Phillip told her.

She smiled at him and went to hug Nina, who seemed sad. "I love you," she told Nina. "You're a very good friend."

Olivia laughed, a happy laugh, and Etta smiled along with her.

"I love you too, child," Nina replied, her eyes a bit teary. "And I'm very happy to be your friend."

Etta promptly left. She dragged Phillip over and fixed him with a serious expression. "Nina needs a hug, Phillip. I think you should do the honors."

Everybody laughed, Nina included.

* * *

Author's Note: Urgh! Burn! Yeah, I murdered your fave fandom, and now I'm done. Maybe... ;)


End file.
